


The Long Way Home

by PocketAnon



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Action & Romance, Captain Swan - Freeform, Captain Swan Big Bang, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-11-08
Packaged: 2018-12-17 09:05:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 70,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11848374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PocketAnon/pseuds/PocketAnon
Summary: After an unnaturally long life fraught with personal tragedy, Killian Jones has become known throughout the realms as the infamous Captain Hook, an opportunistic ne’er-do-well and one of the most formidable pirates to ride the waves.  When he crosses paths with a mysterious young woman with no memory of who she is or how she arrived there, he recognizes the chance to claim a monetary reward that will constitute his biggest score yet.  But a journey across the world to get her home leads to a series of adventures that reveal that her value lies in far more than gold and jewels.  A Captain SwanAnastasiaAU - sort of.  (Captain Swan Enchanted Forest AU.  Romance, Adventure, & Eventual Smut.  Rated E.)Warnings: Brief but graphic depictions of violence, peripheral character death, and smut.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> OMG, it’s finally here! I started this story in 2015, back when I was writing for pleasure with no intention of ever sharing any of my work publicly. It fell to the wayside when I finally got around to joining the fandom and began writing fic formally, and it wasn’t until the opportunity to do the Captain Swan Big Bang came around that I remembered I had it and decided to try to flesh it out and turn it into a completed work. 7+ months later (after a LOT of consternation and whining and “Why did I ever agree to do this?”) it’s HERE. And I’m SO relieved that it’s done, LOL.
> 
> Special thanks to my beta, @captainstudmuffin, and the amazing @lifeinahole27 for their help and patience with me, to @clockadile for lending her sword fighting experience, to @ladyciaramiggles for her feedback on early drafts, to @phiralovesloki for heading this year’s CSBB and fielding my questions, and to @kmomof4 for always being my cheerleader. Thanks also to everyone who took my nerdy little survey (http://pocket-anon.tumblr.com/post/163775461657/a-big-thank-you) on nautical terminology in fic (yes, that was for this project), and those of you that sent me words of support about it. I threw together a nautical terms glossary for you all at (http://pocket-anon.tumblr.com/post/164518357577/glossary-shipnautical-terminology).
> 
> Lastly, deepest thanks to my wonderful CSBB artists, @waiting-for-autumn and @giraffes-ride-swordfishes for giving feedback on early drafts and providing some gorgeous artwork to accompany this fic! Links to their illustrations of certain scenes will be in the notes below - please be sure to go show them some love!
> 
> Thanks to you all for reading. I hope you enjoy. XOXO

“Captain! Captain!” 

The sound of pounding feet approaching the door to his quarters causes the gentleman in question to lift a heavy, dark eyebrow, even as his gaze remains on the leather-bound inventory log he’s hunched over with the ship’s quartermaster. The Jolly Roger is preparing to pull into port at Vicarstown, and he always prefers to finalize the list of supplies they need to acquire at a stop prior to docking. It would go better without interruption.

“Captain!”

He gives a long-suffering sigh and drops his head resignedly, his weight pressed forward on his right hand. “Yes, Mr. Smee?” he drones.

Having been waiting for permission to enter, his slightly pudgy first mate flings the door open, the bearded man’s features twisted into an anxious grimace. “Sorry to interrupt, sir, but a ship’s been spotted in port.”

He looks up sharply. “Who?”

Smee swallows and licks his lips nervously. “Blackbeard.”

A muscle twitches in the Captain’s jaw as he considers this information. It’s not welcome news, to be sure, but there are worse things. Prominent pirate crews like his and Blackbeard’s do not always do well in close quarters, but while their last encounter just under a year ago was tense, no one died. There’s no outstanding beef between himself and the other captain (that he’s aware of), and frankly, the Jolly sorely needs this stop to resupply and to refill her coffers with the sale of their most recent spoils.

“Do we continue in, Captain?”

The Captain’s steely blue return stare is resolute, his expression bordering on a scowl as he straightens. “The Jolly does not turn tail for anyone, Mr. Smee,” he snaps. “Particularly not for that lout. But inform the men to remain on guard, and assign extra hands to stay behind on watch. No strangers are to be allowed anywhere near the ship, understood?”

His confidence seems to reassure his first mate, who accepts the orders with a hasty bob of his head. “Yes, Captain.” 

As Smee pulls the door shut behind him, the Captain turns and retrieves a sharpening steel from the drawer of the small desk in the corner, running it in practiced strokes along the tip of the polished metal hook that sits where his left hand once was. He signals the wiry quartermaster to resume their discussion with a curt nod and hums acknowledgement now and then as the other man talks, even while his thoughts remain elsewhere. A less experienced captain might view the presence of the other ship as an opportunity to poach her best crewmen or plunder her loot, but he knows there’s truly little to be gained by starting a feud with a loose cannon like Blackbeard. The more prudent course is to simply remain alert and hope, for once, for an uneventful visit to port. 

 

* * *

 

Maggie, a plump woman with graying red hair, plasters on a smile as a large group of bawdy customers pours into her tavern – pirates, by the look of them. Her suspicions are confirmed when their leader, a tall man with a curly black mane, matching beard, and a tricorn hat brings up the rear. Maggie winces inwardly at the sight of him. She doesn’t turn paying customers away unless they get out of hand, but it’s nearly happened with Blackbeard and his crew on more than one occasion. Pirates, on the whole, tend to be an unruly lot, but Blackbeard and the men he generally chooses to sail with are some of the worst of the bunch; it’s no feat to think of half a dozen other crews she’d rather have at her tables. 

Maggie urgently seeks out her newest serving girl in order to shoot her a look of warning. She took the young blonde in only six weeks ago, and unless the poor thing is even unluckier than they already know her to be, it’s doubtful she has any experience dealing with Blackbeard or his crew. Not that the girl would recall such an encounter, having mysteriously appeared in the middle of their little port town with no knowledge of her own name, much less any other details of her life. Dubbed “Swan” by one of the tavern regulars as much for her prickliness when harassed as for her enviable beauty, the girl’s entire past is one enormous blank to her, and it’s anyone’s guess why.

Their eyes meet across the tavern, and Maggie watches Swan survey the new crowd with appropriate apprehension before the girl nods back her understanding. One thing that’s been fairly clear from the start is that Swan has good instincts that make her quick to read a situation and adept at dealing with aggressive drunks who want her services to include something other than bringing them food and libations. Maggie prays those instincts serve her well tonight, because between Swan’s physical charms and Blackbeard’s reputation for causing trouble, things could get ugly very quickly.

 

* * *

 

It seems a small miracle when the first hour passes without too much fuss. The pirates arrive famished and sober and more focused on addressing both those maladies than stirring up trouble. Though most of them openly leer and make the usual assortment of lewd comments, no one does more than pat or pinch Swan’s ass, offenses that she does her best to ignore. 

Nevertheless, the tension grows as the hours creep by. Some of the men depart after eating, no doubt heading for the brothels, but half a dozen remain behind, including their captain, a man with glittering dark eyes whose lingering gaze abrades her skin worse than the rest. Perhaps it’s simply the obvious authority he wields over his men, but there’s something far more intimidating about him than the others, and she does her best to avoid eye contact and keep out of his reach. Nevertheless, the rum continues to flow, his stare grows increasingly lustful, and by half past ten, she knows by the lascivious curve of his lip and the increasing harshness of his laugh that it’s only a matter of time before he does something one of them is going to regret.

The shoe finally drops a short while later. He calls her over and invites her to share a drink with him. She politely demurs, saying that she has other customers to tend to, but he jovially waves off her excuse and rises partway out of his seat, grabbing her skirts as she moves away and yanking her down on to the bench beside him.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you?” he rumbles gruffly, his kohl-lined eyes slightly glassy. “There’s only one answer to an invitation from a pirate captain.”

Lips in a thin line, Swan fixes him with a scorching glare that causes some of the men behind him to look nervous. To her utter frustration, the Captain himself seems unfazed as he continues to gaze up and down at her assets. “Still pretty sure it’s some version of ‘no,’” she retorts, springing off the bench. She gasps when his fingers close around her wrist. 

For a drunken fool, he still has decent reflexes, and his coarse laugh is menacing as he rises to his feet, staggering only a little, and hauls her over none-to-gently. One beefy hand clamps tightly around her narrow waist, pinning her shoulder to his chest, and he chuckles lecherously as he buries his face in her neck, his acrid breath surrounding her and the sensation of his tongue on her pulse point tempting her to scream. “Come now, girl,” he growls in her ear. “Let me show you a good time. Not everyone is lucky enough to have their pleasure with the legendary pirate Blackbeard.”

He moves to paw at her breast, and Swan lets out an angry snarl and tries to wrench out of his grasp. Her free hand flails to his chest to push him away and lands on one of a trio of short knives the Captain wears girded to his torso. With a grunt, she yanks it free, flips it to adjust her grip, and whips the blade up against his neck, nostrils flared and chest heaving. “I’ll pass,” she hisses through her teeth.*

It takes Blackbeard’s rum-soaked brain a moment to catch up with this turn of events, but he stills and slowly pulls his face back from her golden curls, eyes rolling sideways to lock warily onto the blade pressed firmly to his skin. 

“Perhaps you’d best unhand the lady before she gives you a shave, Blackbeard.”

They both look up to see an amused-looking man walking toward them. He’s rakishly handsome, young and tall with short dark hair, three days of scruff on his chin, and blue eyes. Clad like a man with money, he wears black leather from head to toe, his long, heavy duster swaying gently as he walks, a heavy silver buckle, clasps, rings, and chains glinting in the firelight. He holds his head high, his swagger and the hand poised casually at his belt helping to camouflage the threatening square of his shoulders and the deadly weapons on his person, and Swan realizes with a small start that the curved silver hook he appears to hold in his left hand is actually a replacement for the hand itself. Whoever he is, Blackbeard’s men obviously recognize him and do not attempt to get in his way. 

The interloper stops a sword’s length from them and smirks. “I’d hate to have to circulate the news that your throat was slit by a tavern girl using your own dagger.”

“Hook.” Blackbeard sneers, though his eyes remains fixed largely on Swan and the blade. He reluctantly releases his grip on her waist, exhaling when she pulls away and the steel leaves his skin. “It’s dangerous to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong, boy.”

Hook gives a dark chuckle. “Yes, you’ve demonstrated that quite nicely.” 

With Blackbeard’s attention now occupied elsewhere, Swan silently backs up, her heart drumming furiously against her ribs as she keeps the dagger held at the ready and makes a beeline for safety.

 

* * *

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Hook watches the barmaid slip away, quick as a shadow, to the far side of the tavern with Blackbeard’s weapon still in hand. She finds refuge behind the counter in seconds, and he satisfies himself that she seems unhurt even as Maggie rushes to fuss over her. 

“The girl is lovely, but she seems like more trouble than she’s worth,” he remarks to Blackbeard. “Best let sirens be.”

His rival growls, swiping a hand across his neck resentfully and checking his fingers for blood. “I get what I want, Hook.”

“If you want a knife in your belly rather than a roll in the sheets, I’d say she’s happy to give it to you,” he replies cheerfully, allowing himself an admiring glance toward the bar. “But no sense risking your neck for something easily got elsewhere.” He steps closer, arching an appraising eyebrow. “Unless,” he drawls with a wicked grin, “you can’t afford more willing company?”

“Watch your tongue or lose it.” Blackbeard grunts testily and knocks back one last shot of rum before pointedly tossing a small bag of coins on the table. “There’s never a day my coffers don’t put yours to shame.” He barks at his remaining crewmen that the brothels await them and stomps toward the door and out into the night without so much as a look back, his men trailing in his stormy shadow. 

Thankfully, the girl is nowhere to be seen as they make their exit. The palpable tension in the tavern eases and the din swells back to normal levels when the heavy oak door shuts behind the last of them. Hook inhales deeply, chin tipped slightly upward, and snags Blackbeard's money before going to the bar to pay his greetings to the tavernkeep.

She meets him with grateful eyes and pushes a full bottle of rum in his direction. “On the house, Captain.”

He favors her with a wide grin and tosses her the little satchel. “Think nothing of it, love. My evening will be much better without having to share space with that bloody fool.”

Maggie chuckles and goes back to draining a cask of ale into tankards. She cocks her head sideways at him. “You must be in a generous mood tonight to bother talking him into leaving. I hear the two of you never hesitate to cross swords.”

He harrumphs. “The bastard’s no challenge when he’s drunk. Plus I’d hate for you to have to wash blood from your walls when time’s better spent making food and ale.” He pops the cork on the rum with his thumb and takes a healthy swig, humming appreciatively at the sear of quality liquor down his throat. “With a little luck he’ll leave your new girl alone now,” he mutters.

Maggie arches an eyebrow, a discerning glint in her eye. “I’m sure Swan’ll be glad of it,” she replies coyly.

The corner of his mouth quirks upward at the odd moniker. “Swan?”

“That’s what we call her. Poor dear appeared in Vicarstown over a month ago without any memories; just woke up in an alley with no idea how she got there. Doesn’t even know her own name.”

He leans forward, frowning. “Really. Injured?”

“Or cursed.” Maggie shakes her red curls with a shrug. “Nary a trace of what did this to her, but she’s good help, smart as a whip, and easy on the eyes, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, so I took her in.” She sets another brimming tankard on a tray with five others and wipes her hands on her apron. “Have a seat, Captain. I’ll send her along with these presently, and we’ll see if she’ll indulge your curiosity.” She winks.

Hook gives a courtly bow as he backs away with rum in hand. “I do so enjoy your hospitality, Maggie.”

True to the older woman’s word, several minutes after sitting down with his men at the corner table he favors, Hook spies the girl’s golden head coming toward them. To her credit, she no longer looks shaken by earlier events, managing a pleasant, professional smile. It’s no mystery why Blackbeard wanted her; she’s easily the most enchanting creature he’s seen in months, if not years. Lustrous blonde hair spills in loose, thick waves around her shoulders, firelight dances across graceful high cheekbones and a perfect nose, and long, dark lashes frame her big, mossy-green eyes. She’s slender with curves in all the right places, and though not dressed as provocatively as many barmaids he’s met, she cuts quite the figure in her tight-laced russet bodice and dark blue petticoat, with more than one man at his table regarding her (and the swell of her breasts) with interest. 

She navigates her way toward them bearing her tray of drinks and sets it down on the table with a murmured greeting. “Hello. Here you are. Now, would you all like food, more drink, or both?” She listens intently as the men begin ordering, intelligence obvious in those lovely eyes. Then she turns her gaze fully upon him, her expression going solemn. “I should thank you for earlier, Captain.”

Something about her sincerity causes him to feel almost shy, but he acknowledges her thanks with a tip of his head. “Yes, well, I’ll have you know your quick thinking deprived me of a dashing rescue.”

His words cause her to smile – this time a real, gorgeous, self-satisfied smile that reaches her eyes and causes his throat to tighten. She shrugs, lashes brushing the tops of her cheeks. “Sorry. The only one who saves me is me, I guess,” she says with a slight blush.

He chuckles. “Tough lass.” He holds out his hand. “Captain Killian Jones. They call me Hook.”

“They call me Swan,” she returns. Her palm is soft as it slides into his rough one, but the handshake she gives him is confident and solid. 

He turns her hand over and presses a gentlemanly kiss to her knuckles before letting go, enjoying the way the color in her face deepens. “So I hear.”

The next few hours are something of a blur to him as he spends it eating and drinking and playing dice, all the while trying his best to keep from openly staring at the Swan girl as she goes about her work. She’s a delight to watch – graceful, observant, efficient, and savvy when it comes to handling the rougher clientele. Her fierceness doesn’t end with her encounter with Blackbeard – a grin tugs at his lips each time she uses a baleful stare or a sharp quip to put a presumptuous man back in his place. She’s fascinating, this woman – a bright jewel in a dingy setting – and so he passes the evening stealing glances and keeping one ear open for the sound of her voice.

It’s just after midnight when the tavern quiets, most of his men having gone off to the brothels or back to the Jolly to sleep off their well-fed, drunken stupor. Even Maggie has retired upstairs to her apartments, leaving Swan behind to see to the stragglers, most of whom are dozing at the tables.

“Are you not joining your men, Captain?” she asks while gathering dirty dishes from a nearby table.

Hook looks up at her from the supply purchase list he’s reviewing and smiles. “Why would I do that when the company here is so much more interesting?”

She rolls her eyes, but even in the firelight he can discern another subtle flush in her cheeks. “‘Interesting’ is hardly the right word. I don’t have any stories to tell.”

He hums noncomittally, seeing her modest comment for what it really is. “Maggie mentioned that. You’ve no memories at all?”

Swan appears only half-surprised that he’s been told of her situation. There’s a split-second before she folds her lips ruefully and shakes her head. “None.” With an apologetic smile, she carries the plates back to the kitchen.

Hook stares into the fire crackling in the hearth, all of the nightmarish memories that occasionally still haunt his sleep – memories he’s spent decades trying to drown in cheap drink and loose women – coming to mind. “What is that like?” he asks quietly when she returns, running a finger around the lip of his rum bottle absently. “To not have any memories?”

She pauses and turns to survey him, and he gets the sensation that she sees deeper into him than he wants to let her. Perhaps he shouldn’t have asked. It feels as though he’s just showed his hand. But his unease is replaced with elation when she sighs and sits down at his table.

“It’s very strange,” she answers, her face honest. “Empty. I don’t know who I am or where I come from or how I got here, whether I have a family, what my life was like…” She gives a sardonic laugh. “It’s unnerving.”

Her sad eyes make his heart twinge, and he studies her thoughtfully. “Well that’s not true; we know _some_ things about you, Swan.”

“Oh, so you’re a pirate _and_ a fortune-teller?” She tosses him a dry look, a delicate eyebrow raised. 

Hook grins at her sarcasm and shakes his head. “Just experienced. I’ve traveled the realms for a long time.” He reaches across the table and gestures at one of her hands. “May I?”

She blinks, surprise giving way to dubiousness, and considers him for a long moment before finally acquiescing and gingerly setting one of her hands in his. He tries to ignore the tingle that shimmers down his spine and the uptick in his heart rate that comes from her touch, pointing at her upturned palm with the tip of his hook. “Look. You have a few calluses, but not enough to suggest a life of hard labor. The color of your lovely skin in the heart of this summer suggests that either you came from a northern country or you spent most of your time out of the sun,” he continues, thinking aloud. “The way you speak also rules out half a dozen lands I can think of.” He smiles back up at her. “See how this works?”**

She’s leaning forward now, the skepticism in her eyes fading as she swallows and nods. She glances at her hand in his and pulls away, clearing her throat and rubbing her palms together self-consciously with pink in her cheeks. “That’s, uh, that’s actually pretty clever.”

Hook curls his empty fingers. “Well, I didn’t get to be a pirate captain on my good looks alone, you know,” he quips, flashing a rapscallion’s grin for effect.

She laughs and chews on her lip in a way he finds endearing. “Anything else?”

He shrugs. “Well, I think it’s obvious that you’re not from anywhere near here, or someone would have recognized you by now. No one could forget a face like yours, I assure you.” He winks, savoring her recurrent blush, and his finger taps the table as he continues to muse. “Have you tried looking at maps? Perhaps something might look familiar.”

Her eyes light at the suggestion. “I hadn’t thought of that, but there are maps over at the bookshop. I can make a trip there tomorrow afternoon.”

He scratches behind his ear. “You know, I also have a very large assortment of maps on my ship which will cover many more lands than what you’ll find at that shop,” he volunteers. “Perhaps you’d like to come aboard?” He lifts his eyebrows hopefully.

This earns him an incredulous sideways glance.

“For the maps, Swan,” he says, feigning innocence with a boyish grin.

“I’m sure.” 

His heart falls when she gets to her feet, but his disappointment is tempered by the way her eyes dance.

“I’ll try the shop first, thanks. I think there’s one thing I can tell you about myself, Captain.”

He arcs an eyebrow. “Oh?”

She hums knowingly. “I don’t think I’m the kind of girl you’re hoping I am.”

He chuckles, letting her words sit between them for a moment before rising and pressing a handful of coins into her palm to cover his bill, marveling again at the softness of her skin. “Perhaps,” he says softly, dipping his nose so it’s inches from hers, “you don’t know what kind of girl I’m hoping you are.” He savors the nervous flutter of her long lashes and her failure to pull away this time, and he grins, stepping back and giving her a military-style bow. “The Jolly Roger will be in port at least until Friday. I hope to see you again soon, milady.”

Swan watches him retreat with wide eyes. She licks her lips and swallows. “Goodnight, Captain.”

“Goodnight, Swan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * artwork by @giraffes-ride-swordfishes (http://giraffes-ride-swordfishes.tumblr.com/post/164523518911/the-tavern-art-by-wordangel-deviantart-x-the)  
> ** artwork by @waiting-for-autumn (http://waiting-for-autumn.tumblr.com/post/164522959258/may-i-art-for-pocket-anon-fan-fiction-the-long)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On to Chapter 2! Thank you all so much for the lovely feedback, reblogs, kudos, and comments you left me on Chapter 1! I hope you continue to enjoy this story - I promise there’s a lot more of... well, EVERYTHING, to come. Chapter 1 was more of an introductory chapter; the rest are considerably longer, so tuck in!
> 
> Nautical term glossary here (http://pocket-anon.tumblr.com/post/164518357577/glossary-shipnautical-terminology).

Hook spends the following morning haggling over the sale of the Jolly Roger’s loot – barrels of tea leaves, casks of fine spices, bottles of expensive perfumes, bolts of cloth, and loose gems they’ve taken off a handful of merchants over the last few weeks. It’s their usual routine in port to sell the spoils first to refill the coffers and empty the hold and then to resupply shortly before departing. Much to his relief, Blackbeard’s ship, the Queen Anne’s Revenge, is doing the latter, and rumor is she’s heading back out to sea today. Hook watches her through his spyglass from across the wharf, her decks a bustle of activity as packs of salted meat, crates of dried fruits and vegetables, boxes of hardtack, and casks of fresh water are loaded aboard. _With any luck, they’ll be gone by sundown_ , he thinks grimly, _and everyone will be able to breathe a bit easier._

He stows his glass and turns his attention toward the town, fingering the full purse on his belt and enjoying the jangle of the coins therein. Their earnings from this morning have already been distributed to the crew and the remainder secured aboard the ship, and, with the exception of the men standing the current watch, the rest of his crew have already gone ashore to indulge in what pleasures of port their money can buy. He, too, plans to enjoy a bit of leisure time this afternoon, and he contemplates where to go first. It’s little surprise when his mind turns to a certain bookshop and the intriguing girl he might find there, and before he knows it, he’s headed down the gangplank, his feet light as they carry him into town.

Swan and her mysterious past constitute the most interesting diversion he’s had for a long time, and he turns the puzzle over and over in his mind while he wanders the humble dirt streets. He’s known men to lose their memories and even their faculties after head injuries, but the girl obviously has her wits about her (indeed, to a captivating degree) and there were no signs of physical injury on her arrival, to hear Maggie tell of it. Maggie had suggested a curse, which seems more likely in his mind. Swan is special, as anyone can see, and it’s long been his experience that special people have a tendency to find glory or trouble, if not both.

He hasn’t shared this particular insight with her, but he suspects that she might be noble. Despite her skill in handling rowdy tavern patrons and lusty pirates, her manners and the way she carries herself suggest good breeding. He’s already pointed out that she bears no signs of a life of manual labor, and that suggests some amount of money. The way she’d handled Blackbeard’s knife is also interesting. She’d wielded it properly, flipping it about in her hand and holding it at the ready like a woman trained to handle a blade. _Who taught her? Her father, perhaps? A brother? A husband?_ he wonders with a frown. _And are these people looking for her?_ Surely she’s being missed by someone, unless some horrible fate has also befallen her family.

To his disappointment, he doesn’t see her when he locates the little town’s bookshop and peeks in the window, but across the way lies a swordsmith, and he decides that perusing their weapons is as good a way as any to pass his time. He waves off help from the swordsmith’s young apprentice and contents himself to browse the racks of weapons on display, picking them up, testing their weight, eyeing the curves of their blades, and putting them back, always with one eye on the street. The selection and quality here is good, and he makes a mental note to return and find a few new swords for the Jolly’s armory.

It’s nearly two o’clock when at last he spots a slender figure in a dark blue cloak who looks as though she’s trying not to draw attention as she steals down the street with a large covered basket draped over one feminine arm. The hood obscures her face from this angle, but a stray blond wisp betrays her, and he recognizes Swan immediately. He hastily replaces the saber he’s examining and steps outside. “’Afternoon, milady!”

She halts and turns her head, looking a little shy even as she offers him a smile that makes his heart leap. Swan smoothes back the errant lock of hair and glances up and down the street for onlookers before she makes her way over to him. “Captain.”

“Fancy meeting you here,” he says blithely. “What are you about today?” He gestures toward her basket.

One eye narrowed as though she sees right through him, she grins nonetheless and allows him a peek inside at a collection of carrots, onions, and heads of cabbage. “For dinner tonight at the tavern,” she explains. “I was going to stop by the bookshop to see those maps on the way back. You?”

Hook tips his head toward to the swordsmith’s shop behind him. “Looking to restock the ship’s armory,” he answers. An idea occurs. “Care to look around with me? You seem to know your way around a blade.”

She snorts. “Yes, I know which is the pointy end,” she chuckles wryly.

Hook laughs. “You may know more than that. Let’s find out.” He motions for her to follow him inside and flashes his most winning smile. When she opens her mouth in protest, he lifts his brows beguilingly. “Humor me, darling?”

Swan rolls her eyes and sighs, allowing him to shuttle her through the door of the smithy. Once inside, she sets her basket down, pulling back the hood of her cloak and surveying the large space curiously, her head craning to look upon the racks of shining weapons that line the walls. 

He steps away to pick out a few different swords, the metal clanking as he threads the hilts over his upturned hook. “Here we are, love.” He returns and holds one up for her to inspect. “Do you know what this type of blade is called?”

“It’s a cutlass,” she answers with a shrug. “Most sailors carry them.”

“Very good.” He favors her with an encouraging grin and hands the cutlass off to the apprentice before sliding the next sword off his hook. “And this?” He watches with satisfaction as she takes in the weapon’s features and her face brightens.

“I think it’s called a backsword.”

“Excellent,” he crows, his smile growing wider. “And this?” He holds up a third.

“That’s a smallsword.”

He swings the smallsword in the direction of a much larger blade displayed on the wall. “And that?” 

“A longsword.” Her delicate features form an expression of awe and excitement as she realizes what she knows.

“And if you needed to defend yourself, which would you reach for first?”

She smirks. “The closest one.”

 _Gods, she’s bloody brilliant._ Hook laughs, shaking his head. “You know what I mean, love. Which would you be most comfortable wielding?”

Swan purses her lips in thought, and her lashes flutter closed as she tries to envision her weapon of choice. Head still bowed, she lifts a finger toward the sword on the wall. “That one.”

The certainty in her voice causes him to raise an eyebrow. “Really? Alright.” He returns the smallsword and bids the smith’s apprentice to bring him a couple of long wooden practice blades from a bin in the corner. The teenage boy eagerly complies, running the polished rods over and then scrambling to take up a seat in the corner in order to watch. Hook throws the lad a wink as he passes one practice sword to Swan and then brandishes the other.

“Uh, what are we doing?”

“Something most people try to avoid,” he replies matter-of-factly, rotating his wrist with practiced ease to get a feel for the balance of his weapon. A playful grin curves his mouth. “You’re about to cross blades with a pirate.” He holds up his hook to stifle her objection. “Look, Swan, clearly you’ve had some weapons education; you even have a clear preference in swords. Someone somewhere has taught you something. Let’s just see how much you know, yeah?”

Her forehead wrinkles, and she blinks at him helplessly. “You know this is crazy, right?”

Hook shrugs. “On the contrary, love, if it helps get your memories back, it strikes me as quite rational.”

“Okay, but why?” Swan plants her free hand on her hip and angles her head. “Why are you helping me?” 

“Because this is the most interesting thing I’ve found to do in a long time,” he admits with exasperation, motioning for her to raise her weapon. “Now come on.”

She looks down at her practice sword and back to his expectant expression. At last, she throws caution to the wind with a huff. “Ugh. Fine.” Undoing the clasp of her cloak, she pulls it off and deposits it atop her basket, revealing a pretty white blouse with short puffed sleeves and a dark green petticoat beneath a brown leather underbust corset that flatters her body in such ways as to make his mouth run dry. Swan tests the weight of the practice blade and gives it a few swings with a thoughtful hum. Then, meeting his eyes, she executes a two-handed sideways slash at his head.

Though he’s momentarily distracted by her appearance, sharp reflexes and years of experience allow him to instantly deflect her attack, the loud clack of wood on wood echoing through the shop. They circle around one another as she attempts several more strikes, each of which he smoothly parries, but he roars encouragement to her as she goes, his eyes flashing with enthusiasm. “Good! Nicely done. Again!” 

After several minutes, he begins to introduce some basic attacks of his own, determined not to harm her but interested to know whether she’s been taught defense. As usual, Swan does not disappoint. Her skills are not overly polished, but they’re far from rudimentary. Sweat beads on her forehead, and though she just barely manages to block a few of his jabs, she guards herself well and doesn’t give up too much ground as he tries to advance, meeting him strike for strike with determined grunts and a stubborn bent to her brow. He notes that she switches between a one-handed and two-handed grip frequently. Even more interesting however, is that she appears to be enjoying herself as her confidence grows, her face a mixture of focus and exhilaration. After five minutes, however, she begins to visibly tire, and he reluctantly decides to end their match. With a wide rotation of his sword and a flick of his wrist, her blade drops to the floor.

He answers her pout with a consoling smile. “That was excellent, Swan. You’ve been taught well.” He tries not to stare at the way her chest heaves or the way a thin sheen of sweat makes her creamy skin glow in the afternoon light. 

She dabs her forehead with the back of her wrist. “Is that all that tells you?” she asks breathlessly.

“Uh…” Hook tears his eyes off her with some effort and coughs weakly. “No.” He collects the practice blades and returns them to the apprentice, flicking the boy a copper for his trouble.

“By your choice of the longsword and the way you handle it, I suspect you were trained by a soldier or a warrior in one of the northern lands. Your skill suggests that either you’re a quick study or that whoever trained you devoted a fair amount of time to it and was probably an excellent swordsman.” He allows her to contemplate this while he scoops up her cloak and basket, arranging them over his hook arm before herding her toward the door with his hand on the small of her back. “Come. If you’re not too tired, you can show me to this bookshop, and we’ll see what else we can discover about you.”

 

* * *

 

Swan wears a private smile as she watches Hook confer with the proprietor of the bookshop from her seat in the corner. She bites back a giggle at the sight of the fearsome captain being surprisingly patient with the intimidated shopkeeper, a mouse of a man who is clearly unaccustomed to having pirates in his store. His wizened little hands tremble as he leafs through his parchments and atlases, and his bespectacled eyes keep darting nervously to the Captain’s hook hand. Hook shoulders the man's fear of him with ease, clearly accustomed to being viewed as a threat.

She chews her lip as she considers Killian Jones. She’s heard of Captain Hook a number of times since her arrival in port. From what she’s gathered, he has a reputation for being ruthless, devious, and cunning, and a position on his crew is highly coveted by sailors looking to work for a man who is demanding but wildly successful. The women adore him, and it’s not hard to see why. He’s intelligent and suave and unfairly handsome, with blue eyes as mercurial as the ocean and a smile that draws her in and begs for her affection. Swan can’t deny the sparks that seem to dance across her skin each time he finds an excuse to touch her or the low flutter in her stomach whenever she catches him watching her with poorly-disguised want. But the thing that intrigues her most about the man is his obvious interest in discovering who she is, rather than simply seducing her. He’d implied some degree of boredom, though what could be boring about a life filled with swashbuckling adventures is beyond her. Swan takes a deep breath. Well, whatever his motive, he’s helped her figure out more about herself in the last 24 hours than anyone else has been able to deduce in six weeks, and for that she supposes she owes him a debt of thanks. A shiver runs between her shoulder blades at the thought of how he might elect to receive such gratitude, and she blinks rapidly and looks away, attempting to redirect her mind toward something – anything – else.

To her great relief, the Captain himself provides a distraction when he returns bearing an enormous atlas. “Here we are, Swan. Hopefully this will do.”

“Oh?” she asks, looking up with a nervous flutter of her lashes. She feigns a smirk while praying her cheeks are not as red as they feel. “Are you saying I might not have to visit your ship after all?”

“Well, let’s not be hasty.” He flashes a wicked sideways grin and thumps the book down on the table in front of her, opening it to a particular page with a creak of the spine and rotating it her direction. “Here’s a map of the lands to the north. Given your skill with the longsword, I think it best to start here.” Inspiration seems to strike him, and he pulls out a black scarf and drapes it over the page.

“What are you doing?”

“Just trust me.” He responds to her arched eyebrow with a sly wink and pulls part of the scarf back to reveal the far upper left corner of the map. “There’s Arendelle. What lies to the east?”

For twenty minutes they work their way across the map, heads bowed together, Hook gradually pulling back the scarf to reveal more and more of the northland as he quizzes her about what lies just beyond the visible parchment. It becomes evident to them both that she has in fact been taught more than a little about the geography of the world, but as they move a little farther down the giant page, her knowledge of the terrain becomes more and more detailed.

Hook points to a large river that disappears beneath the scarf’s edge. “Do you know what becomes of this?”

Swan sighs, the whispers of impatience beginning to take hold, but he eggs her on with an irresistible smile and a little nod, and she lets her eyes fall shut and dutifully struggles to remember. “It… winds through a mountain pass,” she says haltingly. “There are a lot of twists and turns. Then it turns hard to the east and becomes the northern border of Misthaven. Eventually it runs all the way to the White Sea.”

There’s a prolonged silence, and she opens her eyes to find him staring at her, his face inexplicably dumbstruck. She frowns. “Captain?”

He licks his lips, blue eyes shining, a small awed smile blooming on his face. “Bloody hell, Swan,” he breathes. “I think I know who you are.”

Her mouth falls open. “What? Who? How?”

He whisks the scarf away and stares at the now-revealed map of Misthaven, a medium-sized kingdom that lies along the eastern border of the large central continent. His finger absently traces the river that runs exactly the course she predicted. “It makes sense,” he mutters.

“What does?” She grabs his forearm to draw his attention back to her. “What makes sense?”

Hook glances down at her hand almost curiously, and Swan pulls her fingers away, willing her face not to warm. He grins softly. “I haven’t been in that part of the world for a while,” he begins, “but we came across a long-distance merchant ship from Glowerhaven about a month ago. There was a royal communiqué among the captain’s papers addressed to all of that kingdom’s ships – an alert about a missing person.” He leans back in his chair and gestures to her. “Princess Emma of Misthaven.” He chuffs. “Apologies, love, I should have thought of it sooner.”

Swan squints, trying to process his words in a way that doesn’t make them seem preposterous. “Wait, what? You think I’m _royal_?” She crosses her arms with a disbelieving laugh. “That’s insane.”

“Is it?” he presses, arching an eyebrow. “You carry yourself like nobility, Swan, you have the manners and education of someone high-born, and you’ve been trained to fight by a great swordsman, like a knight or a _king_.”

“What do you mean I…” The indignant question fades from her lips, and Swan is suddenly so overwhelmed with nervous energy she leaps to her feet and begins to pace restlessly. Noble? Royal? Her? That’s absurd. 

_Isn’t it?_

Hook’s piercing gaze continues to follow her, his expression maddeningly sensible. “They say the Princess is beautiful and clever, if a bit unconventional. I daresay it’s an apt description.” His eyes glint with amusement. “There’s also your talent for rebuffing men to take into account.”

She pauses, shooting him an irritated look. “What does that have to do with anything?”

He chuckles, brushing the side of his curled index finger with his thumb. “As I recall, there was a bloody pilgrimage of suitors to Misthaven last summer. Went home empty-handed, the lot of them. Forgive me, love, but I have no trouble believing that was your doing.”

Swan snorts, but the shadow of a smile flits across her face. She wanders back to her chair, thoughts still reeling. “I had no idea you had a taste for royal gossip,” she manages.

“Yes, well, word travels fast in my circles when the waterways are filled with wealthy noblemen.” His smirk fades at the unamused tilt of her head, and he sighs. “Look, I know this seems crazy,” he says soberly, “but you have to listen to me. Deep down, you know I’m right.”

“How could it be true?” she demands, lines creasing her forehead in rows. “How could I forget everything and end up on the other side of the world? It’s impossible.”

Hook smiles patiently. “Love, I’ve traveled this realm and a few others for over 170 years.” He responds to her shocked blink with a dismissive wave. “Long story. But suffice it to say there’s very little that’s impossible. I promise you there’s an explanation.” He nudges the book closer to her with his fingertips. “You have good instincts. Trust your gut, Swan. It will tell you what to do.”

She’s silent for a long while, reaching to gingerly trace her fingers over Misthaven’s winding borders. His reasoning is sound – she doesn’t question that – but it’s all so much. _Too_ much. What if he’s wrong? He _has_ to be wrong. She doesn’t feel like a princess (whatever that feels like). She’s just an ordinary person, a little lost girl taken in by a tavernkeep, a girl who sweeps floors and takes orders and serves ale and dodges handsy drunkards. And suddenly she finds herself keeping company with an infamous (infamous, devastatingly handsome, and apparently _ancient_ ) pirate captain who’s convinced she’s heir to a kingdom half a world away, and it’s _too much_.

She looks up and searches his face. His eyes are uncharacteristically honest and imploring, and she finds she cannot resist their silent plea. At last she exhales with a shudder. “If,” she says slowly, “ _If_ you’re right… then what do I do? Who could have done this?”

Hook shakes his head. “I don’t know. Perhaps an enemy of your parents? Alas, I’m not an expert on royal politics, though I know something about having magical enemies.” He pointedly holds his hook aloft.

Her eyebrows tick upward, but she decides not to pursue that tale for now. “So what do I do?” she asks again, tucking another stray lock of hair behind her ear.

“Well, that seems rather obvious. You go home.”

She eyes the map again, following the path of Misthaven’s coastline and letting her thumb drift over the tiny drawing of a castle a little ways inland. _The royal seat._ “Home?” she repeats softly.

He nods. “Even if we’re wrong, Swan, it’s clear you won’t find any more answers around here. I think travel to the northern lands is your best bet.”

“With little money and no resources?” She utters a strained laugh. “How would I even get there?”

The knowing smile that curls at his mouth illuminates Hook’s face like the sun. “Why, on the Jolly Roger, of course.”

 

* * *

 

 _Bloody hell._ She’s the Crown Princess of Misthaven. The bloody _Princess_. Hook escorts Swan back to the tavern, sneaking sideways glances at her perfect face, and the more he considers the idea, the surer he is of it. The problem now lies in convincing her. She seems to be considering his proposal to travel north, but _belief_ , aye, belief is another thing all together. He can’t say he blames her – it seems quite the fantastical story. But then, he’s lived enough fantastical stories to know that the truth is capable of being more bizarre than the tallest tale.

His plan to take her back to Misthaven on the Jolly is perfect, though – she’ll get her best chance to find out who she is, and he’ll get to enjoy her delightful company for well over a month. And if the communiqué he found was correct and the King and Queen are willing to reward him handsomely for the safe return of their beloved daughter, well, he wouldn’t be a pirate if he turned down a profitable endeavor, would he?

He leaves Swan at the tavern to help Maggie prepare for the evening crowd, giving her arm a gentle squeeze and gently tipping her chin up with the curve of his hook so he can meet her conflicted eyes. “I know it’s a lot to think about, love,” he says, “but try. I can help you find what you’re looking for.”

She smiles weakly and offers a timid nod. “I’m sure I’ll see you soon, Captain.”

Hook gives his most reassuring grin and a bow. 

As soon as she disappears around the doorway, he makes haste back to the docks. A passenger on the Jolly means another mouth to feed and more supplies to buy for the journey, a matter to discuss with the quartermaster. And a _female_ passenger means adjusting the crew’s sleeping arrangements. Smee will have to give up the first mate’s berth, the only private sleeping quarters on the ship other than his own – unless, of course, the Princess wants to join him in the captain’s quarters. 

Hook bites his lip and shakes his head. The idea is a wonderfully salacious distraction, but Swan isn’t a common whore with whom he can just have some fun and part ways. There was a time, back when he was more promiscuous, when he wouldn’t have hesitated to try to bed a woman as beautiful as her, regardless of the circumstances. But he’s mellowed a little over the decades, and while her royal title doesn’t automatically inspire much respect from him, Swan herself certainly does. The Princess, even unmarried, has no business consorting with a pirate except in his wildest fantasies – she’s too pure, too special to be sullied by a man like him. She may not remember turning down every eligible nobleman who’s sought to win her, but she has. Fate, it seems, has an even worthier hero in store for her. He grits his teeth and glances down at the heavy rings he wears, trophies from men who once crossed him and met their ends. For the first time in over 100 years, the sight of them brings a pang of regret, rather than reassurance. A hero he most certainly is not. He and his brother once dreamt of becoming heroes long ago, but that’s no more than a distant memory now, a pleasant dream completely obscured by Liam’s death and the hard lesson it taught him about the steep price of maintaining gallant ideals in a cruel world.

Transporting the Princess back to Misthaven should be an interesting adventure and certainly a lucrative one – that’s all that matters, isn’t it? There’s no room in his heart for love anymore anyway, he reminds himself bitterly; he’s destined to mourn his first love, his Milah, forever. That’s his sad fate and a fitting punishment for the villain he’s become.

When he arrives at the Jolly, he summons the quartermaster and Smee to his cabin and orders them to close the door. 

The quartermaster, Roberts, shares a questioning look with Smee and complies. “Captain?”

Hook throws both men a look of forewarning. “This is for your ears only, understand?” His tone brokers no room for argument.

The men glance at one another again and nod. “Yessir,” they answer in unison.

He wanders over to a cabinet filled with rolled maps and star charts and begins sorting through them. “I’ve come across a rather extraordinary opportunity for us, but it will require some modification of our previous plans and an unusual situation on board for the next two months.” He locates his comprehensive map of the White Sea. “We’ll be taking a female passenger to Misthaven.”

Smee balks. “A woman? Who?”

Hook chooses his words carefully. “It has yet to be confirmed, but I think she’s their missing princess.” He ignores his crewmen’s startled expressions as he rolls the map out over his table and secures it with paperweights. “She’s lost her memories somehow, but I’ve spent enough time with her to be convinced of her identity. Word is that the King and Queen are offering quite the sum for her safe return.” He glances up at them meaningfully and grins. “Enough to set us up for a long time.”

“So we’re kidnappin’ ‘er then?” Roberts asks, raising an eyebrow, no judgment on his weather-worn face. It would hardly be the first time a pirate had taken a royal for ransom.

Hook smiles wider and waves a finger. “That’s the beauty of it. I don’t think there will be a need. I think the lass is going to come with us willingly. She may not be sure of who she is, but she knows traveling north with us is her best chance to find some answers.”

“Well, that will certainly make it easier,” Smee agrees, brightening.

“I’m glad you agree, Mr. Smee,” Hook replies amiably, “because she is likely going to need your berth for the journey while you bunk with the rest of the men.”

Smee’s face falls immediately. 

“It also means,” Hook continues, turning to Roberts, “that we’ve another mouth to feed. You and I are going to revise the purchase list. I want us resupplied and back out to sea in no more than two days.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Not a word of this to anyone, anywhere,” he emphasizes, giving them each a hard look. “That includes the rest of the crew until she’s aboard and we’re underway. If word gets out that the Princess is in port, the excitement could spook her, or someone else may try to steal her away for themselves. She is highly precious cargo, and this will require discretion. We will not collect our reward unless we deliver her to her kingdom safely.” 

After dismissing Smee and modifying the purchase list with Roberts, Hook leans over the map on his table with a distant stare. With any luck, they’ll be back out to sea in a day or two with the Princess on board. A small smile pulls at his mouth as his mind begins to wander. He envisions them sharing the occasional meal at this table and wiling the evenings away in pleasant discussion. He can regale her with stories of his adventures and enjoy the way her gorgeous face lights up when she laughs that warm, infectious laugh of hers. Perhaps he’ll resume her weapons training – give her a few lessons on deck and teach her to use a cutlass or a nimble smallsword in addition to that less wieldy longsword she currently favors. Perhaps he’ll point out the constellations to her as they sail on moonlit waters; even with her royal education, he doubts she can read the night sky better than he. He imagines her standing on the deck with a hand at the rail, the wind tugging at her silken hair and the hem of her skirt while her shining eyes gaze out over the dark waves toward the horizon. 

Hook catches himself in his reverie and freezes, his fingers tightening into a fist. He has to stop. As bloody amazing as the Princess is, he cannot afford to develop any real feelings for her; it’ll only lead to heartache when they return her to her kingdom and bid her farewell, and he’s had enough of that for several lifetimes, he thinks, glowering at his right forearm where Milah’s name lies inscribed in ink beneath his sleeve. Hook sets his jaw in silent rebuke. He’s been in this business long enough to know that sentimentality only leads to regrets or empty pockets, and frankly, he can afford neither.

 

* * *

 

“Are you alright, Swan?” Maggie bangs her ladle against the inside of the stew pot with a few loud clangs and sets it aside. “You’ve hardly said two words all afternoon.”

Swan glances up from the potato she’s peeling, forcing a smile that does not reach her eyes. “I’m fine,” she reassures the older woman, “Just… thinking.”

Maggie snorts, placing a lid over the pot and adding another small log to the wood-burning stove. “Oh, _thinking_ ,” she repeats good-naturedly. “What’s turned your head?” She crooks an eyebrow. “It wouldn’t be a certain handsome pirate captain, would it?” Swan gives a start, and the tavern keeper nods sympathetically. “He’s a charming bastard, isn’t he? You certainly aren’t the first to pine after him.”

“Ugh, I’m not _pining_ ,” Swan retorts, wrinkling her nose. “I mean, he’s not what I expected, and he _is_ charming, but it’s not that.”

“Of course.” Maggie smiles indulgently and hauls out her cutting board. “Well, what then?”

Swan tosses the potato in a bowl and reaches for another. “He…” She pauses, brow creased. “He thinks he’s figured out who I am. Who I _really_ am,” she clarifies.

The other woman gasps and spins, agog. “You’re serious?” When Swan nods, she muffles her happy cry with both hands. “Well, tell me, girl!”

Swan smiles weakly. “He thinks I’m from Misthaven.” She doesn’t want to share the fact that Hook believes her to be a member of the royal family; even if she were convinced of it herself, labeling herself as a princess seems a good way to invite trouble. “He’s… heard of a woman who’s been missing, and he thinks I fit her description. He wants to take me there to see if we can find some answers.”

“Heavens.” Maggie aims a puzzled look at the ceiling as she tries to remember. “I think I’ve heard of Misthaven. Where is it?”

Swan bites her lip. “Practically on the other side of the world.”

“Well, what would you be doing here then?”

“I don’t know!” Swan tosses another potato into the bowl with more force than necessary and hunches forward on her little stool, her eyes dropping to her hands as she anxiously rolls the paring knife between her palms. “It’s crazy, right?”

Maggie considers her for a moment before humming and gently collecting the knife and the bowl of peeled potatoes from her. “It’d certainly be a strange thing,” she agrees. She sets to dicing vegetables, and for a few long minutes, the only sound between them is the crackle of the fire in the stove and the repetitive thunk of her knife on the wooden cutting board. “But then,” she offers at last, “if anyone would know about strange things, it’s the Captain.”

Swan looks up at her warily and scoffs. “Are you saying you think he’s right? That I should just go off on some caper? With a _pirate_?”

“I hardly know, my dear,” Maggie concedes serenely, her eyes on her work. “But while Killian Jones is indeed one of the most feared pirates in these parts, he also strikes me as a very smart man. What he says could be worth considering, so long as you don’t think he’s trying to deceive you.” She wipes down the cutting board with a rag and throws Swan a glance over her shoulder. “Do you think he’s lying?”

“No.” Her reply is immediate, and Swan gives a frustrated huff. She doesn’t know how, but she’s _sure_ that he isn’t lying. The fact is that she’s discovered an unnatural propensity for knowing when people are lying in general – that strange way her skin crawls when husbands claim to be unmarried or soldiers spin exaggerated tales of their exploits in the hopes of enticing her to their beds. It’s just one more thing about her life that she cannot explain. She lets out a harsh laugh. “Strange, isn’t it? A pirate who hasn’t lied to me?”

Maggie grins and shrugs. “Pirate though he may be, Killian Jones has never struck me as truly evil – formidable and extremely complicated, to be sure, but he’s got himself an honorable streak that would surprise you.” She chuckles. “And I must say, my girl, I’ve known him for many years, and I’ve never seen him take as much interest in a woman as he has in you.” She winks. “Perhaps you just bring out the best in him.”

Swan wills her cheeks not flush, her features carefully neutral when she stands defiantly and hauls out a sack of flour to begin making bread. 

Maggie watches her with a look of amusement and a little sadness as she checks on the simmering contents of the pot and then begins separating sprigs of rosemary. They work in companionable silence for a while until Swan has the dough combined and divided and they move to knead the loaves side-by-side at the work bench. “So when do you leave?” she asks.

Swan turns her head, her eyes shining with a shade of helplessness and her shoulders undulating as she works the bread in a practiced rhythm. She directs her gaze back to her hands and sniffs. “I never said I was going.”

Beside her, Maggie’s mouth forms into a quiet little smile. “Oh, Swan. You didn’t have to.”

 

* * *

 

It’s late in the evening by the time Hook makes his way back to Maggie’s. In addition to making his purchases from the swordsmith, he’s spent the remainder of the afternoon haggling prices with various merchants and suppliers. Securing all the food and supplies the Jolly needs is always a task, and he’s gratified to have completed it in a single day. Now, however, he finds himself weary and yearning for a warm meal and a pint or two, and the thought of finding those things and Swan in the same place eases the tension between his shoulders as he pushes the tavern door open. The dinner crowd has mostly dispersed at this hour, and he has no difficulty finding an empty table in the corner.

Swan – Emma, he supposes – emerges from the kitchen several minutes later with a tankard of ale and part of a loaf of bread. “Hi.” She seems almost shy as she places the items on the table in front of him, wiping her hands on her apron.

He beams, exhaustion dissipating at the sight of her. “Swan.”

She appears to relax a fraction and returns his smile. “You look tired.” She studies the subtle signs of fatigue written on his face, and her expression grows sympathetic. “Hungry?”

“Famished,” he admits. “I wouldn’t mind seeing what became of those vegetables you had with you earlier.”

“Of course.” Her grin warms him more effectively than the nearby fire as she turns and hustles toward the kitchen.

The stew is better than adequate, and Hook practically inhales it, mopping up the last drops at the bottom of his bowl with a few torn pieces of bread.

Maggie’s satisfied laugh meets his ears, and the tavernkeep appears and plops herself down at his table. “An empty bowl is the best compliment a cook can receive,” she comments.

He rumbles in agreement. “Aye. If you have some more, I would gladly compliment you again.”

She chuckles and signals Emma, who is cleaning up behind the bar. The girl disappears into the kitchen, and Maggie rotates back to face him. “Swan tells me you think she’s from Misthaven.”

Hook nods and lifts his tankard, giving it a swirl before raising it to his lips. “Mark my word – all signs point north as far as the girl is concerned.”

Maggie surveys him mildly. “For a man who only met her last night, you’re awfully sure of yourself.”

“How long have you known me?”

She laughs. “Many years,” she acknowledges. “I don’t doubt you’re right about who you think she is. I’ve just never known you to be so eager to play the hero. I assume you’re getting something out of this?”

He gives her the side-eye and winks. “Perhaps.”

She arcs a graying eyebrow. “Something other than the chance to get in the good graces of a girl you can’t stop staring at?”

Hook’s gaze falls to the table, though he shrugs and plasters on a nonchalant grin. “Pirate, love. I’m perfectly capable of appreciating profit _and_ a pretty face.”

Maggie sits back and tuts, her brown eyes boring uncomfortably into him. “She’s more than that, and you know it. You’ve figured out how special she is.”

“I know treasure when I see it,” he acquiesces quietly, studying his tankard. His eyes flick back up to her face. “Would you be disappointed if some of my intentions were honorable?”

“Of course not. I’m actually rather proud of you, Captain.” The woman smiles fondly at him. “I encouraged her to go with you.”

“She hasn’t decided yet?”

“Oh, she has,” Maggie replies airily. “She just won’t admit it.” She rises to her feet as Emma emerges from the kitchen and heads toward them with a bowl of stew in one hand and another half a loaf of crusty bread on a platter in the other. The older woman claps a hand heavily on the pirate’s shoulder, somehow making it feel like the weight of the world. “Take care of her, Captain.”

Hook swallows hard and nods as she walks away.

 

* * *

 

The sounds of the street outside have only partly died down by the time Swan returns to the tiny attic above the tavern where she’s slept since Maggie first took her in. Through the single open window she can still hear the scattered calls of drunken revelers and the occasional blush-inducing groans and breathy yelps of the prostitutes servicing their latest round of clients in the brothels (and, indeed, the alleys) down the way. She briefly wonders if Hook is one of those clients, but she quickly shakes her head to try to banish the lurid and unwanted images from her mind.

Hunching to avoid striking her head on the low vaulted ceiling, she steps over to the thin straw mattress that sits on the floor to one side of the window and lowers herself to sit on the edge with a tired sigh. Swan sets her lantern carefully aside and goes to work stripping out of her corset and petticoat, her thoughts a jumble as she sets them aside and breathes deep. It’s been a long and eventful day, and she hardly knows what she’s feeling about all of its revelations – that she knows how to wield a sword and read maps, that the Captain now believes her to be a missing princess from a country so far away it may as well be on the moon, that Maggie appears to trust his judgment, that she feels undeniably drawn to him…

She huffs and reaches for the small, worn hairbrush she inherited from one of the other barmaids, staring out into the night as she absently works the out the day’s tangles with the fraying bristles. 

Leave Vicarstown. 

Does she dare? 

Her eyes flit up and down the dimly lit street, and she winces at the unmistakable sound of some inebriated soul turning out the contents of their stomach nearby. Is she willing to accept a life holed up in this port town? Is whatever lies out there for her worth braving a long voyage at sea with _pirates_? She chews on her lip. 

Is it riskier to stay and never find out?

_Trust your gut, Swan. It will tell you what to do._

That’s what Hook had said. They both know what he wants, but he isn’t asking her to trust _him_ , she realizes suddenly. He’s asking her to trust herself.

She huffs and scrunches her face in a tormented mask.

_Okay. Okay._

Swan straightens and begins to gather her meager belongings into a neat pile next to her bed before she loses her nerve. Her gaze flies around the attic at the various storage crates she shares the space with, searching for a spare sack in which to carry her things.

The sound of heavy footsteps climbing the stairs gives her a start, and Swan freezes, the hairs on her neck rising on end until Maggie’s silhouette, illuminated in the dark by her own lantern, appears half bent-over in the low doorway. The tavernkeep is in her faded cotton dressing gown, her hair in a braid down one shoulder and a dark bundle in her hand. 

Swan’s surprise must be obvious on her face, because the other woman smiles apologetically. “Sorry to have frightened you.”

Swan releases a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. “It’s alright,” she chortles nervously. “I thought you’d gone to bed hours ago.”

Maggie’s keen gaze alights on Swan’s small stack of belongings, and she smiles knowingly in the lantern light. “It occurred to me you might be needing this,” she says, holding out the bundle and giving it a shake. A large old burlap rice sack unfurls.

Swan rises and comes forward, emotion suddenly swimming in her eyes as she hesitantly accepts the offering, cherishing the sensation of the coarse fabric against her fingertips. She suddenly flings herself forward, her arms wrapping around Maggie’s broad torso and her voice wavering with the first tear that rolls down her cheek. “Thank you.”

Maggie sniffles back. “Ah, my dear. You’ve always been welcome.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The journey begins! Thank you so much to all of you who have expressed your support for this story. Your reblog tags and comments here on AO3 bring me so much joy. I deeply appreciate the time you're spending with me, especially right now, when there’s a plethora of good stuff out there to read! I would love to keep hearing your thoughts and reactions to what I have in store for you. XOXO
> 
> Nautical term glossary here (http://pocket-anon.tumblr.com/post/164518357577/glossary-shipnautical-terminology).

The following morning is hazy, the rising sun just beginning to burn off the thick harbor fog when Hook first sets foot on deck. He fills his lungs with cool, damp air and surveys what he can of the surrounding water before turning his attention to the wharf and the port beyond. The sight of a hooded figure walking down toward the dock through the backlit mist causes him to do a double-take, and a broad grin splits his face. She wears the same blue cloak and green skirt as the day before, but a large, gathered burlap sack is tossed over her shoulder now, and her step is more purposeful.

She strides in the direction of the Jolly and sights him as she draws closer. Taking his cue, he moves down the gangplank to intercept her, schooling his features so as not to betray his excitement. Only a subtle smile remains on his lips by the time he meets her emerald gaze. “’Morning, Swan.”

“Hi.” She surveys the ship behind him, squinting in the reflected sunlight but appearing suitably impressed as her eyes drift across the gleaming white hull, the bright blue and yellow gunwhale, the polished wood bowsprit, and the neatly furled sails. “So this is the Jolly Roger.”

“She is indeed,” he says, gesturing proudly. “Finest ship in all the realms.”

Emma makes an agreeable noise, admiring the ship a few seconds more as they listen to the early calls of the sea birds and the soft slosh of the water. She takes a deep breath. “I have some conditions,” she informs him.

“Oh?” His eyebrows and chin rise a touch.

“I sleep separate from the crew.”

“I’ve already made arrangements for a private berth.”

“And you’ll have to forgive me for not loving the idea of being trapped on a ship with a bunch of men, much less pirates,” she continues, her face still critical. “Can you guarantee my safety?”

Hook nods soberly. “You have my word. My men follow my orders or they regret it. Severely. You will be safe under my protection.”

She’s silent for a moment as she studies him with that penetrating stare of hers. At last her shoulders relax, and she tosses her head a little. “I’ll need a weapon. If your ship falls under attack, I will not be helpless and unarmed.”

A quiet laugh filled with admiration bubbles from his chest, and he bobs his head again. “Of course. We can find something for you in the armory once you’re settled. A ship is not an ideal place for longswords, but perhaps you’ll find something else to your liking.” He dimples playfully. “Under my instruction, we might even turn you into a better swordsman than your father.”

Emma finally cracks a small smile, the apples of her cheeks pinking with amusement. “Humility becomes you,” she deadpans. She cocks her head and narrows her eyes shrewdly. “Returning a missing royal has got to be worth some gold. What if it turns out I’m not the Princess? That there’s no money in this for you?”

“Ah.” Hook glances at the sky and searches for the right words, both unsurprised and chastised that she’s deduced his potential for profit in this situation. “The Jolly does not stop being a pirate ship simply because we travel north with you, Swan. We’ll make this trip worth our while either way, and forgive me for saying that you will not be allowed to interfere in those activities.” He keeps his voice firm, though inwardly he cringes at the way her eyes widen. “But we will not take unnecessary risks with you aboard,” he adds, his expression softening. “We will do everything we can to deliver you safely to Misthaven, and, in the unlikely event I am proven wrong about you, the pleasure of your company aboard ship will be payment in full.”

“And by the pleasure of my company, you mean…?” she asks, her tone bordering on a warning.

“Why, your delightful conversation, darling,” he responds breezily. “Unless, of course, you had something else in mind.” He smirks like a scoundrel at the deep flush that washes up over her face.

“I did not.”

His eyes sparkle. “As you wish.”

Emma huffs in a way that befits her regal pedigree, recovering from her ruffling admirably and fixing him with a look of cool scrutiny that actually causes him to hold his breath. Relief washes over him when her hand finally juts out. “Deal.”

Hook beams as they shake on it, and he sweeps his arm sideways to invite her to climb the gangplank. “Who knows?” he declares cheerfully as her cloak swishes softly past him, “Perhaps you’ll make a useful addition to the crew. I get the feeling there’s a little pirate in you.” Her dismissive laugh makes him grin even wider.

 

* * *

 

Swan can feel every pair of eyes on her as she stands at the rail behind the ship’s wheel while the Jolly Roger pulls farther out to sea, her gaze fixed on the little port town that grows smaller and smaller in the distance. Her grim face disguises the tumultuous emotions swirling in her chest as the features of the coastal hamlet grow less and less distinct, fading into the greater landscape of the peninsula until the town is nothing but a smudge in the early afternoon sunlight. Vicarstown never really felt like a home, but it’s the only place she can ever remember being, the only world that’s familiar, and she’s melancholy not knowing if she’ll ever return to see it or Maggie again. As it has since she set foot on the dock, anxiety also ebbs and flows in her veins today, priming every nerve to be on edge, and she wonders for the hundredth time how foolhardy it is to try to journey halfway around the world in the company of pirates. 

Upon maneuvering out of harbor, Hook had called all hands to attention in order to present her formally to the crew, most of who had clearly not been expecting her presence aboard their ship. She’d withdrawn her hood and seen recognition cross more than one face as the men remembered her from the tavern and perhaps even recalled her altercation with Blackbeard. Surprised looks had abounded when Hook had explained that she was being transported to Misthaven as his personal guest. Interestingly, he’d made no mention of her suspected identity or of any reward for her return.

“She is the Lady Swan, and you will treat her as such,” he had called, his jaw set in a determined scowl. “I know most of you bilge rats do not have a lot of experience with true ladies, so I will be clear. She is to be addressed as ‘milady’ or ‘ma’am.’ The deal is that she will not interfere with our ship’s activities, and you will grant her every courtesy within reason. If she asks you to leave her alone, you will do so immediately. Any harassment or insult to her person will be met with consequences at my hand. And her safety is our top priority. Is this clear?”

Sideways glances had been exchanged, but heads had bobbed, and though some had muttered while others had responded more heartily, all had voiced their understanding without protest. The steely glimmer Hook had had in his eyes and the unforgiving harshness in his voice – her first glimpse of him as the dreaded pirate captain – made her breath catch, but the pure obedience it appeared to inspire in the men did leave her feeling more secure by the time he’d dismissed the assembled back to their posts and begun barking orders in various directions to get them properly underway. 

Now, however, her anxiety flares anew. The crew moves in a flurry about her, and she bristles as the pirates openly gawk and leer, staring at her with varying levels of fascination, awe, contempt, and desire. Swan takes a deep breath and holds her head high. She wants nothing more than to try to forget about them, to focus on the sea and the sky or to close her eyes altogether and savor the sound of the waves and the breath of the wind on her skin, but prudence demands she keep her guard up around these men regardless of the Captain’s guarantee. She swallows, wondering if she’s to spend the entire voyage feeling eyes on her back. Hook estimates their journey will take them five or six weeks if conditions are in their favor. _Five or six weeks._ She sighs, impatiently pushing her windblown hair out of her face. A long time to spend looking over her shoulder.

Footsteps approach, and she whirls to see Hook strolling up. He responds to her skittishness with a hand held aloft to stay her and a small smile. “Relax, Swan. It’s only me.”

She blinks sheepishly. “Sorry.” Her eyes flick over his shoulder toward the rest of the crew. “Being the only woman on a pirate ship takes some getting used to, I guess.”

She swears there’s a little tinge of sadness in his eyes as he momentarily bows his head. “Aye, I suppose it does,” he says, more quietly than she expects. He looks back up at her, his smile restored. “Come. Allow me to see you to your cabin.”

Glad for something to do, she picks up her sack and allows him to guide her down a hatch, his hand poised just behind her back as they navigate the narrow passageways that run below deck. They arrive at a nondescript door mid-ship, and he pushes it open before standing aside to reveal a small but serviceable private berth. Swan enters, looking around with interest as she examines the small bunk, built-in washstand, and empty locker shoehorned within. Though the wood surfaces are all well-worn with use, the room is clean and shipshape, and she recognizes the boon of having such a space on a vessel like this.

“Who normally sleeps here?” she asks, impressed with his generosity.

“My first mate, Mr. Smee.” Hook scratches behind his ear. “He’ll bunk with the rest of the crew for this voyage.”

She sets her sack down on the bed and lays a hand softly on the edge of the washstand. “I should thank him for giving this up.”

Pleasant surprise flashes across his features, but Hook shrugs. “He does so on my orders, but I’m sure he would appreciate the gesture. You’ll know him by his red hat. Only he and my quartermaster, Mr. Roberts, know that you’re the Princess.”

“ _Alleged_ Princess.”

His handsome face breaks into an amused grin, and he nods indulgently. “Very well, _Your Highness_.”

She rolls her eyes.

He gestures out the door. “I believe you saw the mess on the way here. The crew eats just before noon and just after sundown. One of the men, Thomas, does most of the cooking. The fare can’t rival Maggie’s, but it’s passable.” He registers the nervousness on her face. “Are you alright, love?”

Swan tries to force a grin, even as her stomach clenches at the idea of sitting at a communal table with a group of unfamiliar and potentially unsavory men twice a day. “Uh, yeah. Fine.”

Hook considers her for a moment. “Would you prefer to dine with me in my cabin?” When she blinks and relief writes itself across her features, he chuckles. “Private meals are a captain’s privilege.”

Swan folds her lips and manages a tiny nod. “If it’s not too much of an imposition,” she stammers. There’s a flutter in her chest at brilliance of his smile.

“On the contrary,” he says, “it would be my honor.”

 

* * *

 

The day is marvelous fun for the Captain. He invites the Princess to hover at his elbow while he explains the ins and outs of the ship, spending more time than usual behind the wheel and pointing out the goings on about the deck to her. He familiarizes her with the structure of the Jolly and with the various members of his crew, and despite her initial guardedness, he wins her smile by interspersing his explanations with the occasional dry commentary, particularly with regard to the latter. The way her dimples flash and her eyes twinkle when he tells her about Smee’s attachment to his hat or about the cooper, Martin’s, propensity to warble loudly and badly under the influence of too much drink tempts Hook to grin like a fool, something he hasn’t done sober in recent (or even distant) memory. She seems to relax a little as the hours go by, her uneasiness lessening in fractions in the comfort of his shadow, and she even goes so far as to voluntarily introduce herself to the crewmen that come up to speak with him, taking an extra moment with Smee to thank him for the loan of his cabin. The expression on his first mate’s rounded face – surprise followed by bashful enchantment – makes Hook wonder how long it will be before Emma has even the most hardened of the men wrapped around her little finger.

There’s something soothing about her presence at his side, her chuckle is music in his ear, and more than once he has to force himself to stifle a smile when he catches a member of the crew watching him knowingly. He swallows hard after the third time it happens, well aware that some of them are comparing this to the last occasion he brought a woman aboard, the woman who became his first mate in every sense, the woman who died because of her decision to follow him. His eyes fall to the deck, the muscles of his jaw tightening. _This isn’t the same thing_ , he reminds himself. Swan – Emma – the _Princess_ – she isn’t like Milah. She isn’t here for him, and she isn’t staying. She may be smart and fiery and bloody beautiful, but she’s a temporary distraction, just a lovely means to a well-paid end. He glances up to see her tracking a pair of gulls over the starboard bow, her eyes wistful and her hair tossed on the headwind in golden ribbons, and he sighs. Bloody hell if he isn’t going to earn every copper of that reward money exercising the self-control it’s going to take to remember that.

“So what did you think of your first day aboard ship?” he asks as they retire to his quarters to await the arrival of their dinner. The sun is just below the horizon now, the sky still glowing with the last bit of its light like a burnt ember. Emma waits, braced midway down the ladder that leads from the hatch above, while Hook moves about the shadowy room, using the flame from a lantern to kindle the brass oil lamp hanging above his table and the two wall-mounted lamps over his berth and near his desk. They flicker to life and cast glimmering light across his belongings, and he turns to see her descend the last few steps hesitantly, her eyes darting this way and that as she takes it all in.

“There’s a lot more to sailing than I ever realized,” she admits, her boots landing softly upon the floorboards. 

“Indeed.” Hook chuckles and gestures with a small bow. “Welcome to my humble abode.” He turns his back to her to shrug out of his coat and strides over to the corner to her left to hang it on a peg on the back of the door. “Sounds like you haven’t spent much time at sea.”

She continues to hover at the foot of the ladder almost shyly. “I don’t know,” she reminds him. “It doesn’t feel like I have, anyway.”

He hums. “Well, all due respect, Misthaven’s never been known for its seafarers,” he points out, unfastening his sword belt and hanging that over the same peg. “As I understand it, its wealth lies more in its forests and mines.” He flashes her a smile. “Never fear, love. You’re a fast learner. If you desire it, I wager we can turn you into a more than adequate sailor by the time we reach your shores,” he says with a wink.

He motions her toward the table, rolling out a map. “Care to see our course?” Hook feels a small swell of gratification when at last she ventures forth from the ladder, hiding his smile beneath his bowed head as he runs his hand over the parchment, the stones from his rings catching the light. “Now, we’re here…” 

Emma becomes engrossed as he talks, some of the stiffness in her spine dissipating while he traces the stages of the Jolly’s anticipated path with the tip of a finger and points out their options for making port along the way. She sweeps the veil of her hair back and tucks it behind her ear before tapping a small drawing of tentacles emerging from the waves. “What’s this?”

“That,” he says sagely, “is a region of increased krakken activity – best avoided unless you care to meet an enormous beast with lots of arms and teeth who wants to have you for dinner.” A knock causes him to glance up. “Speaking of which. Come!” 

The door swings wide, and his crewman, Thomas, a lanky young man with auburn hair, appears, balancing a tray laden with two plates, a pair of goblets, and a small bottle of wine. “Dinner, Cap’n, m-ma’am,” he announces, sounding a little nervous.

Hook beckons him to approach, hurriedly rolling the map away and relocating the other items on the table to the shelf beneath the bank of windows behind him.

Thomas clears his throat as he sets the tray before them. “I found the wine you asked for, sir.”

“Excellent.” Hook swipes the bottle from the tray to examine the vintage and gives a small grin of approval before dismissing his man with a nod. 

Thomas sneaks a shy look at Emma and takes his leave, shutting the cabin door quietly behind him.

The Captain sets the bottle aside and moves to pull out a chair for her. “Milady.”

Emma looks a little embarrassed, clearly unaccustomed, within recent memory at least, to such a courtesy. Her cheeks bloom red as she slides obligingly into the seat and allows him to scoot her in. “Thanks.”

He unseals the wine. “I’ve been saving this for a special occasion,” he says with a wink, pouring them both a liberal glass. “It seemed like an auspicious way to begin our journey.”

Emma reaches out to peer at the year on the faded label, and her eyes widen. “You didn’t have to open this for me.”

His grin reaches his ears. “Nonsense, Swan. Fine wine is meant to be shared with the perfect company. And I assure you, you’re the first person I’ve had the pleasure of sharing a meal with in a long time on whom it would not be wasted.”

She chuckles and looks down into her goblet, giving the straw-colored liquid a little swirl. “Really? You don’t think your men would appreciate getting to taste this?” she asks, bowing her head and sniffing delicately.

He snorts. “Enjoy it, yes. Appreciate it, no. I know the swill many of them will settle for. I’ve drunk a fair amount of it myself.” Her little laugh makes him feel a bit giddy before he’s even had a sip, and he toasts. “To finding home.”

She clinks her glass against his with a slightly apprehensive smile. “Home.”

Between the wine, a meal made from ingredients all fresh from port, and Emma’s company, dinner is nothing short of delightful, though he’s fairly certain the latter is the greatest contributing factor. Emma prompts him to tell her more about the locales they’ll pass through on their way north, and though she clearly makes a point of not overindulging in the wine, she seems to enjoy herself as he entertains her with descriptions of the soft white sand beaches of Glowerhaven, the rolling green hills of the Southern Isles, and the dramatic Cliffs of Evensbrooke.

Only crumbs remain by the time they finish, and Emma rises from the table with a soft rustle of her skirts in order to peruse his extensive collection of books. She drags her fingertips lightly across the spines of the volumes lining the shelves near his bed, examining the titles one by one while he watches her over his second glass of wine. A sizable tome with foreign script stamped across it in fading gold leaf catches her eye, and she carefully pulls it free to inspect it further.

“ _Odýsseia.  The Odyssey_,” she observes, admiration in her voice. She freezes, blinking. “I read Greek.” She stares at the shiny worn calfskin cover in awe.

Hook rumbles with satisfaction at having stumbled upon more evidence of her royal upbringing. “It would seem you do, _Alleged_ Princess.”

She narrows her eyes at him and purses her lips in the barest of concessions before flipping the book open and scanning a few of the dog-eared pages thoughtfully. “Hmph. Not nearly as well as you, it seems,” she concludes. “This looks like it’s been read a hundred times.” She arcs a brow at him in silent question.

The corner of his mouth crooks upward, and his gaze grazes the beams above them. “You’d be surprised what they teach you in the Royal Navy,” he tells her. “And perhaps less surprised to know that a pirate enjoys reading about adventures at sea.”

“No offense, but I’m a little surprised to find a pirate enjoys _reading_ ,” she admits. “All the pirates I’ve met seem to prefer less… intellectual activities.” She folds the book shut with a soft whump and returns it to the shelf. “Poetry and literature were not exactly common topics of conversation at the tavern.”

Hook flashes a muted smile. “We hail from all walks of life, love. It’s hardly fair to paint us with the same brush when it comes to our interests.”

Emma shoots him an appraising look over her shoulder as she goes back to her meandering tour of his books and other knickknacks. “Are you telling me you don’t also love rum and dice and cards and easy women?” she challenges. The spark in her eyes is pure intelligence and boldness, and, gods, it calls to him like one of Homer’s bloody sirens.

His tongue feels pleasantly heavy as he swallows. “I take pleasure in many things,” he manages, watching her raptly from his chair. “Though I admit that diversions that offer a challenge tend to be much more… rewarding.”

“Hmm.” She sounds unconvinced, but he doesn’t miss the tiny twitch of the corner of her mouth before she resumes her survey of his things. “So. The Royal Navy?”

His grin fades. “Aye. Speaking of ancient tales,” he murmurs. He reaches for his wine goblet and lifts it to his lips.

Emma turns at the change in his tone, eyeing him curiously. “Not a happy story, I take it.”

He sighs as he drains his glass and sets it down. “Not in the end, no,” he answers flatly, his expression somber as he slowly rotates the stem between his fingers. “Let’s just say every man has his reasons for turning pirate.” He should change the subject or stop talking now, he thinks. There’s nothing to be gained by revealing his emotional soft spots to anyone. But she approaches and reseats herself next to him, folding her hands unassumingly in her lap and remaining silent as she waits for him to elaborate, and he realizes that part of him _wants_ to tell her. To be known by her. Several long seconds go by.

“We served a corrupt king who sent us to Neverland in search of a plant we were told was medicine,” Hook begins at last. “It turned out to be poison meant to be used as a weapon of war. My captain wouldn’t believe it at first and dosed himself with it to prove it was a lie.” The muscles in his jaw flex with tension and grief. “He was my older brother, Liam,” he says quietly, his gaze fixed on the table. “He died.”

Emma’s expression transforms into one of horror. “I’m… I’m so sorry,” she stammers.

He nods, his features pained as he chances the briefest of glances up at her before letting his eyes fall back to the worn wood table. “I took command, and this ship hasn’t served a monarch since.”

Her eyes widen. “ _This_ ship. This was a naval vessel.”

Hook’s mouth pulls into a half-hearted smirk. “Not just any naval vessel – the pride of the King’s fleet,” he corrects. “She’s special – made from enchanted wood they say. It makes her the sturdiest and fastest ship in all the realms.” He glances around looking nostalgic. “We’ve weathered many a storm together, seen many strange, glittering shores.”

“Like Odysseus.”

“Indeed.”

Emma hums. There’s a moment of hesitation. “Your brother must have been quite an officer to have been appointed captain of the naval flagship,” she ventures kindly.

Hook’s brow wrinkles, his smile slipping away. “Aye,” he mutters with a bittersweet huff. He stares distantly at the floor by the bookshelf, the spot where Liam last drew breath, and his voice grows thick. “That he was. He was the best of men.”

She shifts in her seat, her face written with sympathy. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up a painful subject.”

He glances up and catches her gaze with the shadow of a polite smile. “It’s alright, love. It was a very long time ago.” He brushes the side of his nose with his thumb before clearing his throat. “Feel free to borrow any of the books you like,” he offers, rising with a grunt. “I should fetch you a lantern for your cabin. Wait here.”

He registers Emma’s grateful nod as he takes up his own lantern and exits his quarters, pausing in the corridor as soon as the door closes behind him to try to shake off the fresh ache - the guilt, sorrow, and loneliness – that resurrecting his brother’s ghost always brings to his heart.

 

* * *

 

A weary sigh escapes Swan’s lips as she retires to her cabin, hanging her lantern above her berth and settling on the edge of the utilitarian mattress with the Captain’s copy of _Customs of the Frozen Lands_. She runs her hand over the smooth black cover, her thoughts swirling as she replays the day in her mind and feels the steady rock of the ship beneath her. The soft, rhythmic creak of boards and the faint footsteps of the night watch overhead sing to her, and Hook’s voice echoes in her thoughts.

_Every man has his reasons for turning pirate._

_What is that like? To not have any memories?_

She remembers the deep weariness that had crossed his face and the way his eyes had darkened when he spoke of his brother, and her lower lip disappears between her teeth. She’s heard Captain Hook described as many things, seen the swaggering rapscallion and the hard-nosed commander, but it’s these facets of him that she’s never heard a word about – the worldly thinker, the thoughtful host, the mournful survivor – that give her the most pause. None of the tales, even from Maggie, have prepared her for the honesty she hears in his words and the glimpses of vulnerability he allows her, and it makes her wonder even more at the hard life that twisted the Captain, a man in whom she sees more than a kernel of good, into a figure of such dark reputation.

Swan rises and sets the book on the washstand. She studies her murky reflection in the dimly lit mirror and half-heartedly tries to finger-comb a few of the innumerable tangles out of her hair. Since her appearance in Vicarstown, she’s only been afforded the luxury of seeing her own reflection a handful of times, and the face that looks back at her is still disturbingly unfamiliar. _Alleged Princess._ As many questions as she has about Hook, it’s really her own story that she should be worrying about. She doesn’t know which possibility terrifies her more – that he might be right about her or that he could be wrong and this could be a fool’s errand that will end with her meeting some unspeakable fate at sea or abandoned in yet another unknown land. 

She locates the laces on her corset and tugs them loose with a sigh. Killian Jones has apparently sailed the realms for over a hundred years, she reminds herself, tossing the leather aside. The questionable nobility of his intentions notwithstanding, she believes his expressed determination to get her safely to Misthaven, and, like it or not, she’s left herself with no option but to trust in that and in him.

She reaches for the lantern to turn down the light, lowering the wick and staring into the dancing flame as it shrinks down to nothing more than a thin glowing stripe. The cabin transforms into a room full of shadows, and Swan shucks off her boots and crawls into bed, electing not to strip down to her shift even in the supposed privacy of her berth. The gentle sway of the ship is soothing, but after several long, sleepless minutes, she frowns, realizing that she misses the chirp of crickets and the chorus of frogs that always filled the night air of the little port town in the wee hours once the bawdiness died down. She wonders what the night sounds like in the world she used to know. Swan curls up on her side, cocooning herself beneath the slightly rough wool blanket and clutching the ancient pillow beneath her fingers, and as she closes her eyes to the uncertainties that loom over her like the dark, distorted shapes on the walls, she tries her best not to feel like a wayward, lonely child who misses a home she can’t even remember.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On to Chapter 4! I'm so pleased that so many of you seem to be enjoying this story, and I deeply appreciate the time you've taken to reblog it, leave comments, and tell your friends about it! This really isn't half the fun without you. Hugs.

Steel whispers as Emma pulls a cutlass from a rack of swords in the Jolly’s armory and draws it from the scabbard to examine it with a narrowed eye aimed down the edge of the blade.

Hook watches her with amusement, leaned against one wall with his arms and legs crossed. She’s wearing her hair up for the first time today, woven with a few thick braids and pulled back into a ponytail that’s already been touched by humidity and the morning breeze, and there’s something very wild and pretty about it. “I assure you they’re all good swords, Swan,” he promises. “I select them myself.” 

“Who says I’m not more discerning than you?” she quips, the corner of her lips pulling upward until one of her dimples appears. She meets his incredulous grin with a chuckle. “Kidding.”

He laughs richly. _Glorious creature._

She moves on to a different, slightly more slender sword and looks it over before rotating it with a few turns of her wrist, the blade arcing gracefully through the air. Emma hums with satisfaction, admiring the clean lines of the wire-wrapped grip. “I like this one.” 

Hook nods. “Very well.”

The blade hisses back into its sheath, and she flashes him an appreciative smile as he hands over a spare sword belt. Standing back, he watches her thread the belt through the scabbard’s leather suspension and loop it around her waist. Emma experiments with the best angle at which to let the sword hang for a minute before electing to just cinch the buckle snug to her middle. The belt is overlong, but it only takes her a moment to formulate a solution, tying the remaining length off so that it hangs neatly downward and then pulling her hands back so she can survey her work. “Does that look right?”

He hums the affirmative as she practices yanking the cutlass from the scabbard, the easy rhythm with which she slides the blade out and back home again making it seem as if she were old hand at this. “It suits you, lass.” He scratches behind his ear. “As does your hair,” he adds shyly.

Emma blushes. “Thanks.” She fingers a golden lock over the back of her ear. “It, uh, it beats pushing it out of my eyes every other minute.”

He rumbles his agreement. “Indeed.”

Her eyes glint, and she grins, turning her attention back to her new sword. A thoughtful look crosses her face, and she chews on her lip.

Hook eyes her knowingly. “What is it, Swan?”

Her gaze turns hopeful. “Do you have a spare a knife or a dagger? Something small for my boot?”

His face brightens, and he cackles with approval. “ _Now_ you’re thinking like a pirate.” He pulls open a locker and retrieves a bound leather bundle, which he unties and lays open across the nearest bench to reveal a dozen smaller blades in various styles. He gestures. “Lady’s choice.”

Emma comes to his side and studies the collection. She selects the slightest of them, a simple blade with an unadorned grip and no guard, and pulls it from the sheath, testing the weight and giving it a simple flip. “Thanks,” she says, slipping the blade back into the sheath and bending down to tuck it into her boot.

“You’re very welcome.” Hook grins with admiration. He proceeds to bind up the remaining daggers and put them away. “And now that you’re armed, we must be sure that you can wield that cutlass properly,” he says, pointing to her scabbard. “It’s no longsword. Come.”

He leads her above, throwing his crewmen cool looks of warning to behave as they make their way starboard, the shadow from the main-mast providing them some shelter from the late morning sun. He takes the time to review the basics, making adjustments to her grip and stance and running her through a few principal cuts to let her familiarize herself with the weight of her new blade and its greater maneuverability compared to what she seems used to.

Emma proves herself to be an apt pupil despite having to take her lessons under the observation of seasoned pirates. Her bearing is indeed noble as she forces her eyes away from them and focuses on her weapon and his words, and her face is so set with concentration he’s left with little doubt that he can turn her into a good swordsman. 

By midday, he’s completed his introduction, and he squints in the overhead sun. “Feel up to a quick spar before lunch, Swan?”

Indecision flashes briefly over her face as she glances at her cutlass and then at men scattered around them, most of whom are doing a poor job of pretending they aren’t watching, but, true to form, the decision not to back down takes hold and she straightens and tosses her head, planting her free hand on her hip defiantly. “If you want.”

Hook smiles and positions himself across from her. “Aye. Let’s see what you’ve learned, shall we?” They stare at each other for a moment, swords at the ready, and though they both know she’s no match for him, her eyes shine with a determination to try to best him that sends a thrill through his chest nonetheless. He licks his lips with anticipation. “Begin.”

Work around the ship halts as the clash of steel grants the crew unspoken permission to give up their ruse and gather round. There are the expected cheers for the Captain, but he also hears a few calls of encouragement for the Lady Swan, and he hums as he parries Emma’s eighth strike. “Seems you have some admirers, love.”

Her beautifully flushed cheeks turn even rosier. “Yeah,” she pants, grunting as their blades slice against each other again and they both spring back.

“Can't say I blame them,” he adds with a devilish grin. The tip of his sword traces a few lazy circles in the air, his steps mirroring hers as they circle. “You _are_ a far sight prettier than I.”

This earns him a little chuckle, and she feints high and slashes low, forcing him to jump back a few inches. 

A ripple of excited cheers and jeers erupt from the men, and Hook crows. “Excellent!” 

He begins a light offensive, jabbing mainly toward her sides to give her a chance to practice deflecting, and when she appears to have gotten the hang of that, he follows up with a quick spin ending in a more aggressive slash. She reverts to a two-handed grip to block it and proceeds to keep both hands on the hilt as she tries to return the assault. 

Hook tuts. “Drop your other hand, Swan. It’s not a longsword.”

She colors a little and complies. A minute later, however, she falls back to her old ways.

“The hand, Swan,” he says patiently.

Emma corrects herself again, looking chagrined as she whips her blade around for another strike. She grunts when he blocks her blow, the steel clanging hard. “Sorry.”

They exchange a few more attacks before he finally deigns to end it, pressing her sword off to the side and twisting his blade around to force her to lose her grip. Emma yelps indignantly as her cutlass clatters to the deck, but the men cheer, and she shakes her head and gives him a conciliatory grin. “One of these days, you’re going to show me how to do that.”

Hook chuckles, sheathing his sword and reaching down retrieve hers. “I suppose I could be persuaded.” He offers the hilt up to her in gentlemanly fashion, a smirk playing on his lips. "Very good, love. Excellent progress today. But keep your other hand in check,” he teases, arching a brow and gesturing toward her left arm, “or I may have to tie it behind your back.”

“Hmm.” Emma narrows her eyes at him knowingly. “No doubt something you would enjoy,” she comments, her face still glowing as she accepts her weapon and puts it away.

He laughs and gives her a wink as his men disperse. “No doubt.” He motions for her to lead the way toward his quarters. “Lunch?”

 

* * *

 

As apprehensive as Swan was about it, having the rest of the crew witness her sword fighting lesson with their Captain seems to go a long way toward earning their respect, and she notices that the men become more open to letting her observe them at their duties, even engaging her and indulging her questions as she learns more about the ship with each passing day.

She’s standing at the base of the main-mast and peering skyward one morning when Thomas swings down from the rigging to land beside her. 

“Help you, milady?”

Swan bites her lip, studying the complicated network of ropes that extend in various directions overhead. “What’s it like up there?”

He laughs. “Depends on how you feel about heights, I s’pose. Made my heart race the first hundred times I went up there and still does when the weather’s foul.” He rubs the back of his neck. “But the view from the top on a clear day? Aye, it’s hard to beat.”

Her eyes trail along the thick lines of the shroud which arches above them. “Can I go up?”

“Oh.” Thomas blinks, surprised. “Well, beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, but I don’t know if that’s wise. Cap’n says our top priority is to keep you safe,” he replies apologetically.

She rolls her eyes, remembering the royal reward money, and cranes her head up again wistfully. “Well, what if I just go up there?” she asks, pointing to the main yard. “I don’t have to climb to the very top. I just want to see what it’s like.” She glances sideways at him with a hopeful expression. “Please?”

The poor lad looks conflicted. “I…” His eyes dart helplessly to Roberts, who approaches from the bow. “Sir? The Lady would like to climb the mast.”

The older pirate’s step slows, lines of disapproval and confusion creasing his face. “What on earth for?” he demands. “…Ma’am.”

“Just getting to know the ship, Mr. Roberts,” Swan explains. “The Captain’s encouraged me to learn a little about sailing while I’m here, and this can’t be any riskier than sparring with him,” she reasons, glancing back up at the yard.

Roberts makes a dubious sound low in his throat. “All due respect, milady, but the Captain’s an expert swordsman who knows how to spar without hurting you.”

“And you’re an expert sailor,” she counters sweetly. “I’m sure you can find a safe way for me to climb the rigging. Every member of this crew had a first time, didn’t they?”

He huffs, running a hand down his face. “The rigging’s no place for a Lady.”

She chuckles dryly. “Yes, well, I’m already on a pirate ship, sir. I'm pretty sure we’re past the point of arguing where I do and don’t belong.” She fixes him with one last long look of entreaty, and her chest swells with triumph as she watches the last of the man’s resolve finally bleed away. 

His shoulders slump with a heavy sigh. “Fine,” he grits. “But you’ll wear a tether or else the Captain’ll have my head.”

Swan beams. “Thank you, Mr. Roberts.”

Roberts grumbles. “Get up there and get a line around the yard for ‘er,” he growls at Thomas. “Be quick about it.”

Thomas gulps and scrambles away.

 

* * *

 

Hook emerges on deck for his morning inspection, squinting into the easterly sun and breathing the temperate air.

“’Morning, sir.” Smee greets him with a nervous half-bow of his head.

His first mate’s tone is an immediate red flag, and Hook aims a questioning glance over his shoulder. “What’s the problem, Smee?” 

“Um, no problem, Captain.”

He raises an eyebrow before looking around for signs of Emma. “Where’s the Lady this morning?” he asks. “Still below?”

“Uh... n-no.”

Hook turns his head curiously to see Smee wearing an anxious expression and pointing. His eyes travel upward, growing round when he glimpses the telltale green skirts and blonde ponytail whipping on the wind high above them. “Bloody hell,” he breathes. His forehead furrows, and he bellows indignantly. “Swan?!” 

Perched atop the main yard and hugging the mast with one arm while she looks aft, Emma’s face comes into view as she leans forward a bit and flashes him a breathless smile. “Hi!” she calls back.

He backs up a few paces in order to see her better, mouth agape. “What the devil are you doing up there?”

She laughs, her face shining. “Flying.”

“Fly—” He clamps his mouth shut and charges forward, veritably leaping down the ladder to the middle deck. His frustrated glare lands on Roberts and a contrite-looking Thomas, who stand watching her at the foot of the port shroud. “What’s the meaning of this?”

“Apologies, Captain.” Roberts holds his palms up to mollify him. “She said you wanted ‘er to learn something of sailing and fairly begged to be allowed up, so we tied a tether to ‘er and I let Thomas show ‘er a bit about managing the sails. We’re just letting ‘er enjoy the view a while longer ‘fore she comes back down.” 

Hook blinks at him and Thomas dumbly, the quartermaster’s words taking the sting out of his displeasure, and the anger fades from his expression as he glances upward again.

“For what it’s worth, she seems right at home up in the rigging,” Roberts notes with a rare gleam in his eye. “Never would’ve guessed it, but the girl can climb.”

“I’ll fetch her down, Cap’n,” Thomas offers hastily.

Hook huffs and waves the younger crewman off. “No, lad. I’ll do it. Back to your duties.” He reaches for the shroud and swings himself up easily as Thomas looks relieved and scuttles away.

“Will you be needing anything then?” Roberts asks, risking the barest of knowing grins.

Hook shakes his head. “Never thought you’d be the first to fall for her charms, Old Man,” he chides, narrowing his eyes.

Roberts snorts. “Fairly sure I wasn’t,” he shoots back, his expression turning droll. He clears his throat with a shrug. “She’ll do well enough. She’s got guts, I’ll give ‘er that.”

Hook concedes with a hum, trying to ignore the little surge of pride in his chest as he begins his ascent.

Emma is looking down at him with amusement when he draws near. “Coming to check on me?” she teases.

“Coming to make sure you don’t break your pretty neck,” he retorts, affecting a scowl. He pulls himself up onto the yard beside her, taking half a second to ensure a steady footing and a good grip on one of the lines.

She smiles, seeing through his feigned gruffness. “I didn’t mean to cause so much trouble. In their defense, your men did insist on taking good care of me.” She pulls one hand away from the mast to pluck at the improvised rope harness that girds her torso. 

He huffs. “As well they should.” He relishes the way the morning sun plays upon her face, even as he forces his features to remain stern. “You are not to come up here without supervision. Understand?”

She nods agreeably. “It was trickier getting up here in a petticoat than I thought it would be,” she admits, wrinkling her nose. “And not just because I have to worry about being exposed by every stiff breeze.” Her cheeks turn crimson, and she smoothes the fabric down over her backside self-consciously.

Hook forgets his pretense and breaks out in a deep laugh, quite certain his men below would be more than happy to see a gale blow her skirt aloft. “Aye. Lovely as you might be in that dress, it may not be the most practical choice for climbing about.” He juts his lower lip out thoughtfully. “We’ll make port in about a week to shore up supplies. Perhaps you could find something else to wear that would be better suited,” he muses.

Emma chuckles. “No, it’s alright. I’ll make do. I don’t have any money anyway.” 

“Consider it a gift then.”

She blinks over at him with big eyes before her expression softens and she shakes her head. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Aye,” he concurs cheerfully, “but there’s no bringing out the sailor in you without the proper clothes, Swan.”

She looks conflicted for a moment, but at last she gives a grateful nod. “It _would_ be nice not to have to wear a corset,” she supposes, grimacing and arching her back slightly.

The motion causes Hook’s pulse to quicken as he eyes her gorgeous curves in profile. He swallows and plasters on a cheeky grin. “Then again, perhaps I should rescind the offer.” 

She rolls her eyes and straightens, her cheeks flushing again, but he doesn’t miss the tiny, smug smile that hints at the corner of her mouth. 

He chuckles. “Very well, darling. As you like.”

“Hmph.” Emma gives him a reproving side-eye before turning her gaze back out over the southern horizon. They stand there enjoying the view for a few long minutes, surrounded by the sound of the wind buffeting the sails and the soft groans of the ship. From somewhere below, the distant voices of some crewmen singing a shanty also rises to meet their ears.

“So what do you think of it?” he asks, watching a loose tendril of her hair curl backward over her brow.

She inhales the salty air contentedly. “It’s amazing,” she murmurs. “I’m starting to understand the appeal of a life at sea.”

Hook smiles, eyeing the endless blue expanse. “Aye. The ocean’s an unpredictable mistress sometimes, but there’s nothing like standing on the deck of your own ship and knowing that she can take you almost anywhere. Where else can you see so much of the world without ever leaving home?” He taps his hook against the mast.

“How long have you lived on the water?”

“Nearly all my life,” he replies. “Since I was a lad. I was ten when my brother and I boarded our first ship.”

“Ten?” Her mouth falls open. “And you never returned to live on land?”

He looks away. “No.” He hesitates when she waits for him to continue. “We… we were traveling with our father. He disappeared one night,” he explains quietly, steeling himself against his emotions and choosing the words carefully. “Left us in the service of the ship’s captain.”

Emma squints, looking horrified. “He left you,” she repeats.

A cheerless smile ghosts over his lips. “Aye. Turns out he was a thief fleeing capture. He went off the ship in a dinghy shortly after putting me to bed, I’m told. We never saw him again.”

He doesn’t have to see her face to feel the quiet sadness that settles over her. “And your mother?” she murmurs, clearly braced for another unpleasant revelation.

Hook dares to meet her gaze again, his expression becoming more drawn. “Died the year before. She’d been sick a long time. One day she fainted. Liam and I waited and waited for her to wake up. She never did.” He glances briefly at Emma’s now heartbroken face before redirecting his eyes to the tail end of their wake, staring numbly as it’s swallowed by the passing waves. 

“You’ve lost so many people,” she observes softly.

“It was a hundred and fifty years ago, Swan.”

“Does that make it easier?”

He sucks in a breath, deciding whether to acknowledge what she seems to know already, and bows his head. “No.” He chuffs. “Wounds that are made when we’re young tend to linger.” Hook lifts his chin again and glowers out toward the waves. 

Emma angles her head. “How _have_ you lived so long, exactly?”

He hums, grateful for the change of topic, and his shoulders relax a hair. “I spent a very long time in Neverland,” he says simply. “The magic of the island makes it impossible to age there.”

Her brow wrinkles. “You went back to Neverland? Even after what happened with your brother?”

He nods.

“Why?” 

He feels her eyes on him as he contemplates the most benign way he can describe the wrath and overwhelming desire for vengeance that fueled his decision to return to that accursed place. “I needed information,” he answers, trying to sound nonchalant.

She arcs an eyebrow. “You spent over a hundred years looking for information?”

Hook shifts restlessly. “I spent over a hundred years in the reluctant employ of Peter Pan, who rules the island. He was, shall we say, disinclined to let us leave.”

Emma frowns prettily as she considers this, a dozen questions writing themselves on her face. “What kind of information were you looking for?”

He’s quiet for a beat. “The way to kill the demon who took my hand.” His eyes dart away, and he swallows tightly, unsure why, for the first time, he feels less than comfortable telling someone about his quest to destroy the Dark One. For decades it’s been integral to his identity, as much a part of him as his hook, but now… now something about revealing himself to her as a man hell-bent on revenge makes him feel less than proud of who he is.

Silence falls between them, and he wonders whether he’s lowered her estimation of him. _Not that it should matter_ , he reminds himself hastily, sneaking a glance at the unreadable expression on her face as she, too, stares wordlessly out over the ocean.

At last she clears her throat. “So, did you get the information you needed?” Her head rotates back toward him.

Hook nods soberly, a knot forming in his stomach at the bitter memory of learning about the Dark One’s dagger – the only weapon capable of killing its malevolent owner – from Milah’s son, Baelfire, during their ill-fated encounter in Neverland.

“Have you had the chance to act on it?” she asks softly.

His gaze remains fixed on the water. “Not yet.”

Emma bobs her head slowly and licks her lips. “And what will you do after it’s done?”

A wrinkle appears between his eyes. “I don’t know,” he admits.

She opens her mouth but falters, as if debating whether to say something. “Maybe…” she starts, “if you find yourself back in the north… you could come say hello to a friend.”

He blinks, his heart leaping in his chest as she glances back at him with a solemn smile. _Friend._ “Aye,” he agrees, flushing with pleasure and enjoying the hint of color that rises in her cheeks as he grins back at her. “I’d like that.”

 

* * * 

 

“Come on, Swan. Let’s get a look.” Hook’s voice is slightly dampened by the curtain covering the doorway of the clothier’s dressing room.

A week has passed since Emma’s first climb up to the yard, and the, true to his word, Hook has put finding a more suitable set of clothes for her on the agenda for their two-night stop in this, the largest port in the Southern Isles. And thus she finds herself in the back of this shop, half-naked, with him but a stone’s throw away.

Swan huffs as she appreciates the lightweight cotton shirt in her hands, the fabric covered in matching white embroidery that gives it a lacy, feminine quality. “As many years as you’ve been alive,” she admonishes, slipping it on and beginning to do up the buttons leading up to the V-shaped neckline, “you’d think you’d have learned how to wait by now.”

Her ears catch his chuckle. “You need a hand, love?”

She smirks to herself. “Is that a joke?”

“No, I’m quite serious,” he calls back airily. “I’m rather good with fastenings.”

It’s her turn to laugh. “I’m sure you are.” Swan finishes buttoning the shirt and sweeps her ponytail free of the collar before examining her reflection in the clothier’s mirror. She smoothes the hem of the shirt down over her hips, turning this way and that to survey her appearance. Her eyes fall to the dark blue leather trousers the clothier had chosen for her. She may have had to suffer the mild indignity of being eyeballed and prodded and measured by the excitable wisp of a man while Hook looked on with a beguiled grin, but the result was definitely worth it, she thinks with a quirk of her lips. The trousers fit like a second skin, and while they’ll take a little getting used to, she has to admit that she loves the look of them as much as she loves the idea of no longer having her movement hindered by the voluminous fabric of a skirt.

Satisfied with her appearance, she reaches for the most indulgent piece of the ensemble – the thick cobalt jerkin with a high collar that the clothier had enthusiastically offered to go with the trousers. She’d expressed reservations about the cost, but Hook had simply rolled his eyes and stepped forward, transferring the jerkin from the other man’s hands to hers and nudging her toward the dressing room.

“Believe me, you’ll be glad for something like this when we travel farther north,” he’d said. “Go.”

Now that she wraps herself in the snug, buttery soft leather and links up the tiny, leaf-shaped clasps that run down one side, she can’t help but let her smile grow. It’s perfect.

Swan tries to mute her pleased expression when she pulls aside the curtain and steps back out into the shop, her old clothes and shoes sandwiched between her hands and the soles of her new knee-high boots thumping quietly across the stone floor. 

Hook turns away from inspecting a dark red waistcoat and his jaw slackens at the sight of her, an appreciative sound sneaking past his parted lips. “Now that’s much better,” he rumbles, his wide eyes sweeping up and down.

“You like it?” she asks coyly, giving the clothier a grateful smile when he beckons for her to hand him her old things in exchange for a pair of elbow-length leather gloves.

Hook’s face brightens with a slightly awed smile. “You look stunning, Swan.”

Warmth creeps across her cheeks, and she allows herself to preen a little, experimentally wiggling her fingers as she finishes tugging the first glove on. “And here I thought you’d miss the corset.”

“Well, that does have its own charms,” he chuckles, scratching behind his ear, “but I’d say this is a better fit for a woman who wields a sword and climbs the rigging.” He ducks his head a little. “Besides, you’d be lovely in anything.” His words leave her heart fluttering, and his grin widens. He pulls out a purse heavy with coin and turns to the clothier. “She’ll have all of it.”

They leave the shop behind a short while later, the paper-wrapped parcel containing Swan’s old clothes swinging on its twine from the Captain’s hook. The sun shines, and the call of voices and the squawking of caged chickens greet them as they wander up the small side street and emerge back onto the port’s main thoroughfare.

“So now what?” she asks.

He hums. “Normally I’d begin negotiating for new supplies,” he replies. “But if you’d prefer I show you the town, I can leave the task to Roberts. It’s usually a quartermaster’s job, anyway.”

“So why do you do it?” Swan looks up at him, puzzled.

Hook’s eyes twinkle. “Because I find merchants to be much more honest when they’re faced with this,” he says, lifting his hook, parcel and all. He smiles mischievously, and she laughs. “Most just want to make a decent profit, but there are always a few swindlers who need a little… inspiration.”

Swan nods, remembering the way her skin had crawled when a vintner had once tried to sell Maggie a case of wine for twice what it was worth. A thought occurs, and she tilts her head. “Could I come along?”

He arches a brow and gives her an amused sideways glance. “Desperate to stay close to me, love?”

Her eyes roll skyward. “Or I could go explore the town on my own.”

“No, no.” He grins and pulls a piece of paper from his pocket, handing it over so she can see the purchase list written on it in his neat, flowing hand. “You’re quite welcome. Just remember that not even I can make talk of salt pork and pickled vegetables very interesting.”

She chuckles at his hubris while she peruses the sheet. “I’ll take my chances.”

The butcher that comes recommended to them has a very large shop and an excellent selection, but it becomes clear to Emma as she pretends to admire some hanging ham shanks and listens to him haggle with Hook over ten crates of cured meats that the burly, fast-talking man doesn’t have any qualms about charging whatever he wants, even after the Captain drops the pleasantries and pointedly sets his hook on the counter between them with a dull thunk.

Hook makes a dissatisfied noise in his chest as he eyes the new figure the butcher scribbles on a scrap of paper in lead pencil. “Thirty-two silver. That’s your best price?” he asks, his voice heavy with skepticism.

The man shrugs. “Afraid so, Captain.”

It’s hardly the truth. The telltale crawl of her skin makes Swan lick her lips. She rapidly considers her options for convincing the man to be more cooperative, briefly wishing she were still wearing something that left a little more cleavage on display. “Please?” she purrs, stepping forward to stand at Hook's elbow and perching her fingertips on the counter. “You can afford to do a little better.” She looks the butcher straight in the eye. “I know you can.”

He blinks. “I… I really would love to, miss. But that has me barely breaking even as it is.”

 _Lie._ She folds her lips in a tight smile. “That’s a shame. We can only spare twenty-six. Guess we’ll have to look elsewhere.” She slips her hands around the crook of Hook’s arm and gently pulls him toward the door. “Sorry to waste your time.”

“You’re not going to find a better price than that!” he protests.

 _Lie._ Swan arcs an eyebrow over her shoulder at him. “I don’t know. I think we might.”

“Silly girl. Captain, please.” The butcher waves a doughy hand at Swan with frustration. “You and I understand business. Talk some sense into her.”

Much to her delight, Hook embraces her charade, canting his head to one side and allowing his eyes to flash murderously. “I’m sorry, did you just insult my Lady’s intelligence?” he snaps, whirling so fast she loses her grip on him. His hand finds the hilt of his cutlass. “You must have misspoken. Surely a smart man like you knows how unwise that would be.” He makes a show of stubbornly refusing to move even as Emma lays a hand on his shoulder and urges him to stand down.

The butcher glances at the sword and the blood drains from his face. He swallows hard. “Of… of course, Captain. My mistake, ma’am.”

Swan accepts his apologetic bow with a gracious nod, biting her tongue and doing her best to keep a straight face.

“Come, love,” Hook growls, giving the man another prize-winning glare before wrapping his hook arm around her back and reaching for the door knob. “If he won’t do twenty-six, he won’t do twenty-six.”

“I could do twenty-nine!”

They pause, shooting him identical dry expressions before daring to look at one another, and she can’t be sure whether the thrill she’s feeling right now comes from having the man right where they want him or from the way Hook's eyes laugh and his arm tightens around her as they silently agree to continue out the door. 

“Fine, then! Twenty-six, twenty-six…” the butcher grouses. He slaps a new slip of parchment on the counter. “Bleeding highway robbery,” he mutters, dashing off a purchase agreement.

Hook gives Swan the barest of winks and wanders back over to the counter, a little extra swagger in his step. “Take it from someone who knows, mate,” he says, snatching up the slip of paper between outstretched fingers. “If this were actual highway robbery, you’d be a lot worse for wear.”

 

* * *

 

“How did you know he’d do it?” Hook admires the purchase agreement one more time before tucking it into the breast pocket of his coat. 

Emma allows herself a self-satisfied smile as they walk down the road together. “I just have a good feel for these things, I guess.”

“Perhaps I should make _you_ the quartermaster.” He throws her a grin before checking their surroundings and nodding in the direction of the grocer.

Emma follows gamely. “And where would that leave Mr. Roberts?”

Hook snorts. “Knowing him, he’s got a secret fortune somewhere. He could take an early retirement or hire on a crew and find his own ship to captain,” he muses. “The Dread Pirate Roberts. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?” He savors Emma's dimpled cheek and dancing eyes and invites her to go first as they wander beneath the shade of the grocer’s enormous tent. “Now, love, care to work your magic again?”

By day’s end, he and Emma manage to secure agreements for enough victuals and supplies to sustain the Jolly the rest of the voyage to Misthaven if need be. Hook mentally tallies the sums while they sit in a local tavern awaiting the arrival of their evening meal. He shakes his head in amazement. “Don’t look now, Swan, but I think we make quite the team,” he informs her jovially. “This is the least it’s cost us to outfit the ship in years.”

“What is?”

They look up to see Roberts, a fresh flagon in his hand, halted on his way to rejoin some of the men at another table a few feet away.

Hook gathers the little sheaf of purchase agreements and hands them over, looking smug.

The quartermaster sets his drink down and shuffles through the papers, his bushy eyebrows leaping upward. “I’ll be,” he drawls with a toothy grin. “Those’re some pretty numbers.”

“Turns out the Lady knows how to drive a hard bargain,” Hook explains, gesturing toward Emma with his own ale and beaming. “You should see her do it.” He catches her eye and smiles. “It’s a thing of beauty.”

Emma blushes hard, and Hook chuckles as Roberts hands the papers back. 

“It’s very impressive, ma’am. You’ll have to tell us your secret.”

She lifts her cup up to her demure smile. “It’s nothing, Mr. Roberts,” she replies, taking a sip. “The Captain bought some things for me today, and I was just returning the favor.”

Roberts raises his flagon to her. “Well, my hat’s off to you. And…” The normally-gruff man eyes her new clothes and hesitates a moment, as if the words are awkward on his tongue. “You… you look very nice.”

Hook swivels his head toward his crewman in surprise, and Emma rewards Roberts with a brilliant smile before the quartermaster wanders off with his cheeks as ruddy as a schoolboy’s.

 

* * * 

 

Foamy waves lap gently at the stretch of white sand that runs north of the docks, the entire landscape saturated in shades of indigo and dark blue beneath the light of an enormous full moon. The dull roar of the ocean mixes in their ears with the intermittent rush of the evening wind that whispers along the coast, and the warm air smells faintly of brine. Swan surveys the scene with a happy sigh as she and Hook elect to make a detour on their way back to the ship. Behind them, the town is dotted with the glimmering light of a hundred lanterns, and the sounds of late-night merriments grow fainter as they hike several hundred yards off the path to the beach. The ground softens beneath their feet, and Swan stops for a moment to bend over.

Hook turns to watch as she pulls off her new boots and hitches the legs of her trousers halfway up her calves. “What are you doing?” Even in the relative dark, the white of his amused grin is evident.

“Enjoying the sand,” she says simply, snatching up her boots and straightening. “You said the shores up north are rocky. Who knows when I’ll be someplace like this again?” She shrugs and flashes him a little smile as she resumes their course, relishing the way her bare feet sink ankle-deep in the cool, dry grains.

They stroll up to the water’s edge, their parallel lines of footprints growing more distinct in the damp terrain, and she sighs happily as the perfectly tepid sea washes over her feet with every lazy surge. Swan cranes her head upward to admire the stars which twinkle in the inky void beyond the moon’s halo. “Does the night sky look the same in all the realms?” she wonders aloud. She glances over to see Hook smile and nod.

“Aye. The constellations move with location and season, but yes, it’s the same stars in every place I’ve encountered. It’s what allows me to navigate no matter where I go.” His gaze sweeps the heavens, and he slows, turning about-face and pointing. “See those four bright ones there? The Southern Cross?” He traces the perpendicular lines in the air with his finger.

Swan steps closer, squinting to try and see what he sees. “There?” Her voice is uncertain as she shifts her boots to her left hand and points with her right.

Hook steps around to her right side and hunches down a bit, all but lowering his chin onto her shoulder to try to approximate her line of sight. He reaches for her outstretched hand, and her heart begins to beat erratically at the sensation of his breath on her cheek and the warmth of his palm around her wrist as he adjusts her angle. “There.” He slowly moves her arm in a similar crisscross pattern, pausing briefly on each individual point of light. “One, two, three, four,” he counts quietly in her ear. “See it?”

Her lashes flutter, and she manages to nod despite the sudden fullness in her throat and the gooseflesh that seems to have erupted across her back and arms.

“Now follow the long axis,” he coaxes, drawing her hand toward the horizon at a slight angle, “about four-and-a-half lengths down. That’s south.” He seems to catch himself and pulls away, clearing his throat. “Um, see? It’s simple.” He scratches behind his ear.

Her breath feels stilted, as though none of the air around them can find its way to her lungs. “Yeah,” she croaks, tucking a stray curl back away from her face and forcing a nervous little laugh. “I’ll have to remember that.”

Hook diverts his gaze almost shyly and looks toward the ocean as he turns to resume their walk. Something a few paces ahead catches his eye, and he strides forward to investigate, reaching down to pluck an object from ground. “Ah! Look at this,” he calls. 

Swan trots to his side, watching curiously as he straightens, cradling a flat, round disc in his palm. “What is that?”

“A sand dollar.” His thumb swipes across the surface a few times to clear the thin layer of wet sand that clings to it, allowing her to see the pretty, flower-like imprint in the center and the odd pattern of slits that surround it. He motions for her to take it. “Some people think they’re good luck.”

She chuffs and accepts, admiring the hard, milky white artifact in the moonlight as she gently brushes the last of the beach off it. “Guess I can use all the luck I can get,” she says with a rueful smile.

He chuckles. “Somehow I get the feeling you make your own luck, Swan.”

“Right. Because waking up on the wrong side of the world with no memories was so lucky,” she shoots back wryly, tucking the sand dollar into her jerkin.

“Well, if you hadn’t, you might never have met me,” he points out, shrugging amiably. “I’d call that a stroke of luck, wouldn’t you?” He offers her his arm and an impish grin.

She can’t help but laugh, and she acknowledges his point with a bob of her head, sliding her hand into the crook of his elbow and trying to ignore the pleasant quiver of her stomach as they turn to keep wandering. “I guess so.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so excited to finally get to release this chapter! It contains a few of my favorite scenes, a couple of which you got to preview in the snippets. Be sure to check out the gorgeous art by @waiting-for-autumn that accompanies this installment. I hope you enjoy! Thanks to you all for your continued support. Your comments give me life!

The morning air is warm and balmy, but the breeze that greets Swan as she emerges above deck is still a great relief from the stifling heat of the space below. It’s just over two weeks into their journey, and they’ve crossed into the tropics – the hottest part of the oceans – with the weather growing steadily less comfortable with every sunrise. The crew has taken to seeking shade whenever possible, and today she’s elected to join most of them in going barefoot, her jerkin and gloves also left behind in her berth and her shirttail fluttering loose. 

“’Morning, milady,” Smee calls from above.

She shields her eyes and cranes her head upward to see the bare-headed first mate climbing down the standing rigging. “’Morning, Mr. Smee.”

“It’s going to be a hot one,” he comments, jumping down. He pulls out his red cap and mops his brow with it before tucking it back into his belt.

Swan rolls up her shirt sleeves, squinting at the eight o’clock sun and leaning her back against the side of the ship. “Yeah. Is this typical?”

“It’s been a while since we’ve been in this part of the world at this time of the year,” Smee admits, sidestepping a passing crewman to stand next to her. He leans on the gunwhale and looks out over the azure landscape. “But this is warmer than I remember. The men are talking about sleeping on deck tonight. It’s getting too thick down below.”

“I noticed.” Swan makes a face at the thought of weathering a night warmer than the last one in her suffocating berth.

“But,” he says eagerly as though to cheer her up, “when it’s hot like this, we spend the whole evening on deck and Roberts plays his fife and there’s singing. Not _good_ singing, mind you,” he adds with an eye-roll. “Martin sounds like a dying cow, but by the time he’s drunk enough to sing, he’s only two more shots of rum away from passing out, so that never lasts long.”

Swan laughs. “Sounds like a good time.”

Smee grins and gazes toward the horizon again. “It’s a good life, if not an easy one. Between you and me, ma’am, I’m glad to be on this journey to take you home. It’s a good distraction for the Captain.”

Swan’s brow wrinkles, and she looks at him. “From what?”

He hesitates, scrunching his nose like a man who isn’t sure how much to say. “What do you know about the Dark One?” he asks in a quieter tone.

She arcs an eyebrow. “Is that the man who cut off his hand?”

Smee’s head bobs emphatically, and she doesn’t miss the slight cloud that comes over his now anxious expression. “He’s not a man, though; not anymore. He’s… Well, I don’t really know what he is, exactly,” Smee says with a frown, “but he’s got magic, and he’s basically immortal.” He swallows hard. “He’s dangerous. Like the devil. Captain’s been trying to find a way to kill him for ages now.”

Swan hums. “So I’ve heard.” She eyes Smee thoughtfully. “And you’ve been with him the whole time?”

“Since the day they started calling him Captain Hook.” Smee raps his knuckles against the painted yellow wood, some of the cheer returning to his cheeks. “Anyway, ma’am, it’s nice to be on a different kind of mission for a little while.” He flashes her another smile and takes his leave.

Per Smee’s prediction, the day turns out to be the hottest they’ve seen yet, but the gods are merciful, and a strong wind makes the blazing sun more bearable and gives them excellent speed as the Jolly continues to cut a northwesterly course across the sea.

Mid-morning, Hook makes his daily inspection on deck and confers with Smee about their heading before pausing briefly astern to take some measurements with his sextant and let out the line of knots Swan has learned helps him gauge their speed. She sneaks glances at him over the pages of her book as she reads on a stool in a corner behind the wheel, a place where she’s discovered she can observe the crew without being much in the way. Like herself and the rest of the men, he’s forgone a few layers, his long jacket and even his waistcoat left off and his right sleeve rolled up to reveal a leanly muscled forearm with a red and black tattoo she can’t quite make out. When he finishes taking his measurements, he turns to gaze out over their wake, his eyes narrowed in the face of the wind. It ruffles his dark hair and the wide open collar of his shirt, and she chastises herself once she realizes that she’s staring, forcing her attention back down to the page and feeling the back of her neck grow warm when he turns his head to look at her.

“Good morning, Swan.”

She tries to affect a relaxed air as she raises her eyes to him, still blinking involuntarily at his devastating grin. “Good morning.” She wills her face not to color. “You, um, you seem pleased.”

If he’s caught her watching him, he says nothing, merely nodding with a glint in his eye. “Aye. We’re making very good time today.” Hook throws her a wink before climbing back down the hatch to his quarters, and it’s a full minute before the butterflies in her stomach leave her be. 

He’s still there when she arrives for lunch, hunched over his maps and navigation tools and making calculations with a pencil on a sheet of paper. The door to his cabin is propped open, as are the four windows lining the aft wall, and an agreeable breeze whistles through, making the room more comfortable than she expected.

He glances up at her entrance and gives her a quick grin as he carefully measures the distance between two points with a ruler and makes a note on his sheet. “Pleasant morning?”

“Uh, yeah.” Swan moves toward his bookshelf. “I finished Volume Two." She slides the book back into place next to its companions.

“Ah. Learning all about the history of sailing?” he asks with amusement.

She grins over her shoulder as she reaches for Volume Three. “It’s not a bad way to pass the time.”

Hook hums. “Indeed.”

She turns and pulls out her now-customary seat at his table, settling into it with her legs crossed and the new book on her knee. “Smee says the men will probably spend tonight on deck because of the heat.”

“Aye, the other cabins can be quite uncomfortable when it’s like this,” he says. He pauses, looking up at her with sudden realization on his face. “What about you, love? Would you prefer to sleep up there as well?” 

The apprehension she feels at the thought of sleeping amongst the men must show on her face, because she hasn’t even decided how to answer before he blurts out, “Or you could sleep here.”

Swan instantly cocks her head and narrows an eye at him.

Hook sighs exasperatedly. “Calm down, Swan. I didn’t mean it like that. Not that that wouldn’t be a life-altering experience, I assure you,” he adds, smirking shamelessly as she rolls her eyes on cue. He chuckles. “I meant you should take my berth. I’ll sleep on deck.” He gestures behind him. “With the windows open, my quarters are quite tolerable.”

“Oh.” Swan blinks, impressed by his selflessness. “You’re being a gentleman.”

“I’m always a gentleman,” he corrects her amiably. “Is that not obvious by now?”

Her lashes flutter downward as she chuffs and acknowledges his point with a nod. “Thank you,” she says, her expression turning sincere. “I’m sorry to impose.”

He waves her off. “It’s nothing. I’ve seen far worse hardship than giving up my bed for a lovely guest.” His attention is drawn over her shoulder. “Ah, Thomas. Lunch.”

The young man walks in through the open door with his tray. “Hope you don’t mind, sir, ma’am, but it’s simple fare today – just salt pork and dry tack and cheese. I’d rather not light the galley fire in this heat.”

“Fine, fine.” Hook briskly stows his navigation tools and calculations in a box and sets it aside before clearing the weights anchoring the map to his table and rolling the parchment up. 

Thomas sets the tray down and smoothes back his damp hair, accepting Swan’s grateful smile with a cheerful bob of his head before heading back out.

As has become their habit, Hook pours the wine while she sets their plates. He drops into the chair to her right with a gratified sigh.

They begin to eat. Swan steals a glance at the forearm tattoo she spied earlier, noting the stylized heart, half-black, half-red, that’s pierced top to bottom with a curved dagger and emblazoned with a name. “Who’s Milah, in the tattoo?” she finally dares to ask.

He freezes mid-bite and his boyish charm disappears, the immediate tension in his shoulders and the thundercloud that appears on his brow like a squall telling her plenty. Hook resumes chewing and swallows, keeping his eyes on his plate. “Someone from long ago,” he replies quietly, reaching for his glass. 

“Where is she?” she asks, fearing she knows the answer.

“She’s gone.” His words are flat, his voice heavy with simmering anger and regret, and her eyes flit between the ink and his hook as it suddenly becomes clear to her. 

“The Dark One.”

Hook’s expression grows even harder. “What?”

Swan chances a look up at him and finds a revelation in the emotions swimming in his eyes. _This._ This man in front of her now, the scarred and resentful man searching for vengeance – _this_ is face of Captain Hook the world has come to fear. She licks her lips, strangely undeterred. “All the time you’ve spent looking for a way to end the Dark One,” she says softly. Her gaze falls on his hook. “He took more than your hand from you, didn’t he? That’s why you want to kill him.”

He doesn’t rage the way she half-expects – doesn’t raise his voice or slam his drink down or jump up and stalk away. He merely glowers at for several heartbeats, taking a long draught from his cup and setting it aside. “For someone who’s never been in love, you’re quite perceptive, aren’t you?”

Swan finds herself straightening haughtily. “What makes you think I’ve never been in love?”

Hook snorts, his amusement at her indignance seeming to soothe his temper, and he goes back to eating. “We could start with the armada of suitors you rejected.” He interrupts the start of her protest with a roll of his eyes and a dismissive wave. “ _Allegedly_.”

“A woman might reject suitors if she was in love with someone else, you know,” she sniffs.

“The daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming?” He shakes his head, dunking a piece of hardtack into his glass. “Believe me, after what your parents had to go through to be together, if you’d found True Love, you’d be married already.”

“You don’t know that. He might be far away. Or… already married,” she counters weakly.

He gives her a chiding look, a gleam in his eye at the way she flushes. “Really? Is that what you’re hoping for? A life of unfulfilled pining?”

“The only thing I’m _hoping_ for is to find out who the hell I am and what happened to me,” Swan retorts.

Hook’s expression softens. “Too right, lass.” He brushes the crumbs off his fingertips with his thumb. “Well, for that you might have to hope you do have a True Love out there. I’m no expert, but if you lost your memories to a curse, True Love’s Kiss might be the only thing that can bring them back, just as it was the only thing that could revive your mother from her sleeping curse. They say it’s the most powerful magic of all.” He registers Swan’s blank stare. “You don’t remember your parents’ story do you?” She arches an eyebrow, her expression turning delightfully dry, and he laughs, leaning back in his chair. “Very well, then. I’ll endeavor to fill in the gaps. Now, once upon a time...”

 

* * *

 

As anticipated, the crew remains on deck after the sun goes down, taking their dinner rations while sitting or standing amidships and drinking grog from flagons or enjoying harder stuff from flasks. Their lanterns dot the Jolly, bright points of light to warn away the darkness that settles around them, and the mood is light and raucous as they all bask in the modest drop in temperature brought about by the sun’s retreat.

Hook sits on a crate near the main-mast, his lower back resting against the gunwhale. His lantern glows on the crate near his hip, and Emma perches next to him on her little stool, using the light to continue reading her history book.

When the men finish eating, Thomas clears cups and plates while others begin stringing hammocks from every available surface. Roberts brings out his fife and begins to play some of the crew’s favorite shanties, and though the songs are sung daily on the Jolly’s decks by a few men at a time, the addition of more voices and more drink makes tonight’s renditions far more robust. Hook turns his head curiously when he hears a soft voice chime in beside him, and his face splits into a huge grin at the sight of Emma, book now closed on her lap, singing along under her breath. She catches his eye, and he can see her blush in the light of the lantern, but she continues nonetheless, a shy smile on her moving lips.

When the shanties have been exhausted, Roberts turns to folk songs and jigs, and a handful of crewmen who are either naturally cheerful or adequately buzzed take turns dancing while the rest clap along. Emma giggles behind her hand at the way Thomas’ lanky limbs flail independent of the beat, and when they reach the appointed hour when Martin begins to caterwaul, she laughs until her face turns red. The sparkle in her eye, the sheen of her gold tresses in the moonlight, the way she applauds and tosses her head back with amusement – even dressed in humble clothes and after a long day of wilting in the sun, the Princess is truly a sight to behold. 

Hook watches her with a dopey grin on his face, and he’s suddenly overcome with the urge to dance with her, nevermind the fact that it’s been ages since he’s danced with anyone. He takes an overlarge swig of rum from his flask, the liquid courage warming his insides, and taps her on the shoulder. “What do you say, Swan?” he asks over the din. “Care to see what you know of dancing?” He holds his hand out to her.

Her eyes widen with surprise, but her lips curl in a sly smile as her gaze travels between his outstretched fingers and his face. She slides her hand into his. “What the hell.”

He rises and pulls her to her feet, excitement coursing through him as she clutches his hand and they shuttle toward the bow. He ignores the shocked faces of his men at the sight of the Captain in their midst, and the crowd backs up to make room for him and Emma on the makeshift dance floor, shouts of approval and encouragement filling the air.

Emma watches with fascination as he launches into an impromptu bit of low-key step dancing, alternately kicking and tapping and scuffing the boards in time to Robert’s spirited playing, and, after studying him a minute, she takes over, her bare feet leaping into action in a similar kind of step. The men's calls grow louder, augmented by piercing whistles, and Hook’s awed smile stretches ear to ear before he answers her with more steps of his own. Roberts increases the tempo, and Hook loops his arm through Emma’s and pulls her into a wild spin as she shrieks and does her best to match his pace. After a few dizzying rotations, he tugs her toward him. She falls into his arms, his hand pressing to the small of her back and her right hand wrapping around his upheld hook, and they dive into a frantic prancing step that carries them back and forth across the deck. It’s a whirlwind of spinning lantern light, riotous cheering, and lively music, and in the middle of it all is her happy face and the weight of her body pressed to his, and he can’t remember the last time he was this deliriously happy.*

They’re thoroughly spent when Roberts ends the song with a triumphant flourish, and Emma collapses against him, clinging to his arms and shaking with laughter while the crew roars and applauds, their chants of “Captain Hook!” and “Lady Swan!” echoing in the night.

He leads her back to her stool, reluctantly releasing her hand and settling back on the crate with a tired but satisfied groan. “Very good, love.”

She chuckles, still catching her breath. “That was fun.”

Hook nods, running his palm up over his forehead to brush his disheveled hair out of his eyes. “Think you’ve ever danced like that before? You seemed to know what you were doing.”

The way Emma ducks her head as she fingers a loose curl away from her face does little to hide her wide smile. “Um, I don’t know. Maybe.” She leans back, one elbow propped on the crate, and exhales deeply. “Strange to think I might have had moments like this before that I just can’t remember,” she muses, looking up at him. 

He studies her face, and there’s something about the shade of sadness in her eyes that pulls at him in a way nothing has in a very, very long time. “Well,” he says, finally finding his voice, “until you get those happy memories back, we shall just have to help you make some new ones.”

Her long lashes grace her cheeks, and she lights with another smile that sets his heart racing all over again. “I’d say we’re off to a good start.” Disappointment fills him when she heaves herself to her feet. “I, um, I think I should turn in soon. Are you sure you’re alright with me taking your quarters?”

The corner of his mouth quirks, and he waves her off. “Go, Swan. I’ll be fine.” He lifts his lantern and offers it to her, his throat tight as she reaches for it and their fingers brush.

She turns, her ponytail flipping when she flashes him one last look of appreciation over her shoulder and moves off. Hook stares after her as she ascends the steps to the stern deck and slips behind the ship’s bell to disappear down the hatch. Her light flickers out of view, and a heavy sigh forces its way past his lips. _Bloody amazing_ , he thinks soberly. 

He sits there a while longer as the frivolity on deck winds down, indulging in more rum and lapsing back into moodiness. His thoughts continue to churn when at last he retires, retreating aft and climbing into a hammock strung up between the boom and some nearby rigging, and he stretches out in the scratchy canvas with a grunt, wiggling about to try to get comfortable. Around him, the ship grows darker as most of the lanterns are extinguished, and the sounds of his crew settling in gradually give way to a chorus of snoring. He stares up at the night sky, the ebony expanse clear of clouds and awash in stars, and he searches the familiar constellations while he tries to get a handle on his thoughts and rein in the desires that are gnawing at his heart.

Gods help him, he wants her. And he wishes that it were a simple matter of lust, but it isn’t. It’s not just that he wants to yank her into his arms, run his lips over every inch of her increasingly sun-kissed skin, and see what kind of sounds he can get her to make as he brings her to the brink of ecstasy (though the thought crosses his mind more than he cares to admit). It’s that he _likes_ her, likes being with her, likes talking with her and teasing her and watching her clever mind at work. He likes the way he can make her blush, likes the tingle that her touch sends across his skin and the warmth that floods his chest when she laughs. He likes her cheek, likes her ferocity, likes the limitless joy on her face as she stares out over the ocean from high up in the rigging. Excitement fills his blood at the sight of her, and her absence leaves him feeling lonely. He hasn’t felt this way about anyone since… since Milah. Hook grimaces. 

Bloody buggering hell. 

He’s falling in love. 

 

* * *

 

With the crew all sleeping above deck tonight, it’s eerily quiet below. Swan can’t help but feel like an intruder as she enters Hook’s quarters alone, despite having become quite familiar with the space over the last couple weeks. Her bare feet are silent on the boards, and she forgoes lighting the lamps and simply reaches up to hang her lantern on a hook on the wall over the bed. 

_His bed._

She runs her hand over the rich red brocade blanket and the velveteen pillows, the fabrics sinfully luxurious compared to anything she’s ever slept in – well, anything she can remember sleeping in, anyway. Fatigue weighs heavy upon her, and she hoists herself up onto the mattress, still feeling a bit like an uninvited guest but rapidly growing too tired to care. A contented sigh escapes her as she lays herself down in the berth, pulling her hair loose and allowing her head to sink down onto the generous pillow. Swan falls perfectly still for a moment, feeling deliciously indulgent in the softness that surrounds her. The thought of Hook trading this bed for what has to be a far less comfortable hammock strung haphazardly from the rigging tugs at her heart, and she inhales deeply and rolls onto her side, kicking away the lovely but entirely unnecessary blanket and cradling the pillow beneath her cheek.

A distinct scent strikes her nose, and a wrinkle forms on her brow as she closes her eyes and breathes in more deeply. It smells like him, she supposes – the saltiness of the sea mingled with olive oil soap and sweat. There’s something pleasant about it that she can’t name – something solid and safe, something that makes her want to bury her nose in the pillow and remember what it felt like to be in the Captain’s arms. Something that makes her wish she were still there.

Swan bites the inside of her cheek in rebuke. It’s madness to moon over a sinfully charming man like Hook. _But, gods, how easy he makes it_ , she laments with a sigh. A shiver runs through her at the thought of his confident smile, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, his devil-may-care swagger, and the lilt in his pretty words. There’s little doubt in her mind of the decency in his soul and even less doubt that he’d be more than happy to join her in this bed if she was willing. She recoils and tries to banish the latter thought before she considers how willing she might be. _Stop it._ In the end, this journey is still about profit to him, she reminds herself sternly. She might be able to count on him for kindness, courtesy, and yes, friendship, but devotion? Love? She shouldn’t fool herself. He’s already given his love to the woman whose name he bears on his skin – a love so great and all-consuming it’s fueled a desire to avenge her that’s outlived most mortal men. What room can there be in his heart for anything beyond that?

Swan inhales again and frowns. She considers tossing the pillow aside before her reaction to his scent overwhelms her good sense, but a little voice protests that she should enjoy creature comforts like this while she can, and she fades out of consciousness dreaming of warm arms and a dancing pair of blue eyes.

 

* * *

 

They remain at sea for another week with only the occasional glimpse of sails on the horizon. It’s a warm Friday afternoon when the peace ends.

“Enemy!” shouts the lookout from above. “Enemy off the port bow!”

Hook looks up sharply from where he and the carpenter are inspecting a loose board on deck that needs repair. “Alec?” he calls back.

“Royal navy, Cap’n! Could be hunters! They’ve altered course and are coming straight for us!”

He swears under his breath and hastens to the side of the ship, catching hold of the rigging and clamoring up the ropes to perch on a ratline for a better look. Out comes his spyglass, and his expression sours as the other ship falls into clear view. “Brigantine!” he yells. “Fast approaching! All hands!”

“Hook? What is it?”

He looks down to see Emma at the gunwhale staring up at him anxiously. He drops to the deck and hands over his spyglass. “It’s the royal navy from the kingdom my brother and I used to serve,” he explains as she peers into the distance. “They have a fleet of ships commissioned to kill pirates on sight. Don’t let the uniforms fool you. If they are who I think they are, they’ve no interest in taking any of us alive.”

Her pretty face pales, and she puts the glass back in his hand. “What do we do?”

The muscles in Hook’s jaw twitch as he eyes the other vessel, resentment twisting in his chest. “If they want a fight, a fight is what they’ll get,” he grits. “No one from that land will ever take anything from me again.” He turns to her. “We’ll board them before they board us, keep the battle off the Jolly. But I need you to get below and stay there until I come for you. Do you understand?”

Deep misgiving fills her wide eyes.

He reaches out and grips her shoulder, earnestness in his voice. “Please, love. Do as you’re told.”

Emma blinks and manages a weak nod. “Be—be careful,” she stammers.

Hook favors her with a grim smile. “I always am,” he assures her quietly. “Now go.” 

He sees her up the ladder to the stern deck and escorts her to the hatch leading down to his quarters, opening it for her and giving her an encouraging smile when she throws him one last nervous glance and slips below.

Smee rushes up. “Orders, sir?”

The moment the hatch creaks shut, he spins on his heel and stalks over to the rail overlooking the main deck. “Hoist the colors and fire a warning shot! Either they surrender immediately, or we give no quarter!” he hollers to his men. “Bring us alongside her, wet the sails, and everyone to arms! Ready the canon and grapnels! Smee, Thomas – you and the night watch stay behind and kill anyone that tries to set foot on this deck!” 

Scattered calls of acknowledgement sound around the ship as the men fly into action, and Hook fixes the enemy vessel with a hateful glare and silently bids it come.

He will keep the Princess safe.

He will defend his ship.

He will remind the men of this kingdom what it means to cross Killian Jones. 

 

* * *

 

Her sword feels heavy on her hip as Swan stands in the captain’s quarters, ears open to the hurried scuffle of footsteps overhead and eyes peering anxiously out the windows for any clue as to what might be happening above. She hears muffled yelling, and her breath seizes in her chest at the sudden boom of a canon being fired on deck. The activity above continues, but the voices die down for a few long minutes before she hears Hook call for the crimson flag and the roar of the men in response. The ship suddenly turns sharp to starboard, and she catches herself against a support beam, her heart in her throat.

 _Be careful_ , she pleads silently. _Be careful, be careful._

She remembers the dark fire she’s seen in Hook’s eyes, the mark of a man relentlessly determined to seek vengeance, and though she’s spent their entire acquaintance hoping his fearsome reputation is overblown, she finds now, when his safety is threatened, that she’s willing to accept his savagery in battle if that’s the cost for his survival. 

She jumps when the other ship’s canons sound off a volley, her pulse throbbing in her ears as Hook orders the Jolly to return fire and more explosions thunder, this time portside. The ship slows to a stop, the shadow of the navy’s brigantine falling upon the window, and feet pound to the side. There’s more canon fire, yells and screams echoing above, and then the activity lessens and the voices grow more distant as the crew of the Jolly boards the other vessel.

Swan paces a path around and around the cabin, her worry growing more unbearable as the minutes tick by. Any one of them could be dead or seriously injured right now, she thinks – Thomas, Smee, Martin, Roberts, Alec… Hook. Her… her _friends_. What on earth is she doing hiding below while they fight for their lives? Her cutlass hisses out of the scabbard. She may not be as good a swordsman as the Captain, but he’s acknowledged that she’s hardly a novice. Someone trained her for a fight. And whoever she is, she realizes, she’s not okay with cowering like this when she might be of some use.

She heads for the ladder. At the very least she can see how Hook and his crew are faring and get some peace of mind that he – that they _all_ are coming back alive.

 

* * *

 

The battle with the navy ship is open war upon the sea, chaotic and loud and fueled by anger and desperation on both sides. They exchange canon and gunfire, the explosions filling the air with smoke and splinters and the screams of injured men, and Hook bellows orders left and right as grapnels arc through the air and his crew swarms to haul the other ship closer to the Jolly. 

His sword slices out of the sheath, and he mounts the gunwhale and leaps across the divide at the first opportunity, grunting as his boots hit the other deck and cutting down the first three men that descend upon him in quick succession, the frenzy of bloodlust surging in his veins.

A yelp sounds to his right, and he looks to see Alec fall to the naval captain with a vicious slash to the leg. The young pirate collapses to the deck, and Hook hollers his name, turning course and rushing over.

The naval captain, a towering man with a broad chest, spins in time to catch Hook’s sword with his own, his craggy, clean-shaven face lighting up as he studies him. “The infamous Captain Hook,” he announces. “At last.”

“Infamous for a reason,” Hook snarls, slashing again. “I’ve survived a long line of attacks from fools like you. You really care to die like all the others?”

His jaw grows tight as they exchange half a dozen more strikes, his opponent’s strokes raining down in a powerful battery that he strains to deflect. Any hope he has of finding an advantage in speed is lost as the man proves as quick as he is strong, and sweat beads on Hook’s brow, his mouth forming a determined sneer as he works to match him blow for blow.

The other captain’s weapon comes swiping down from above, and Hook catches it above his head with both his sword and his hook, the two combatants locking together and lunging toward each other in an attempt to get the upper hand.

“You should have surrendered while you had the chance,” Hook says through bared teeth, the muscles in his arm burning with exertion as he struggles to hold back the other man’s blade.

Their swords grind against one another near the hilt. The navy captain chuckles coldly, inching closer to put his full weight behind his weapon. “And miss the chance to kill a bloody pirate? Never.” He gasps when Hook’s boot finds his torso and sends him stumbling back, barely managing to deflect Hook’s next jab. He executes a wild slash and crows victoriously as the very tip of his sword whispers across Hook’s cheek. The sting barely registers, but Hook growls and takes a step back, his chest heaving, before he launches forward yet again with an arcing backhanded attack. Steel continues to fly between the two men, and they move back and forth with each other across the deck, each momentarily gaining some ground only to lose it again.

A flash of gold and blue catches the corner of Hook’s eye, and before he knows what he’s doing, he turns his head away from the other captain in time to see Emma hurrying across the deck of the Jolly toward them. Her cutlass is at the ready, and her perfect features twist in alarm as she spots him.

Hook blinks and roars. “Swan! What the–”

The navy captain’s elbow bowls into his jaw and knocks him down. Hook crashes to the deck, stunned, his sword skittering away from his hand as he sees lights and tastes blood. 

“No!” Beyond the ringing in his ears he hears the scream – barking, raw, and primitive – and despite the fact that it’s like no sound he’s ever heard her make, something in him recognizes it as Emma’s voice.

In moments the bigger man is upon him, saber glinting in the sun when it rises for the death blow. Then there’s the flash of an object flying through the air overhead, and Hook watches, only partly comprehending, as the naval captain staggers backward, a dagger buried in his neck and blood beginning to pour out from around it. He collapses against the fore-mast, his face going pale and his eyes vacant while he gasps the first of his final breaths, and Hook pushes himself up to squint at the handle of the blade, gaping when he recognizes it as the one from Emma’s boot.

 _Emma._ Ignoring the pain and dizziness, he rolls to retrieve his weapon and staggers to his feet, searching desperately for her. After a cursory look around, his eyes dart over to the Jolly, and he feels a measure of relief when he sees her still standing across the way at the gunwhale. Her chest heaves, and devastation is written in her enormous eyes, and part of his heart would break at the sight of it if there were time. 

“Smee! Get her below!” he orders at the top of his lungs, his sword coming up to block an attack from another naval officer who bears down on him. He swings his blade back around and lunges, sinking it into the other man’s belly and then yanking it free. “Now!” 

Hook catches a glimpse of Smee bustling Emma away before he turns his attention back to the battle. There’s a clear path to Alec now, and he hurries over, dropping to a crouch. The lad’s chocolate skin is ashen, his jaw set and nostrils flared as he winces and presses a balled-up rag to his leg to try to stem the spurt of blood.

“Hang on, mate,” Hook mutters, eyeing the ugly laceration running along the side of his man’s thigh with dismay. He hastily lays aside his sword and pulls out his scarf, looping it several times around the leg. Cinching the makeshift tourniquet causes Alec to buck and cry out, and Hook puffs as he ties it tight. “Try to be still. We’ll get you back to the ship as soon as we can.”

“Y-yessir.”

Hook gives him a nod, snatching his sword back up and whirling away to help his men finish the fight.

It’s several more grisly minutes before the battle is ended, with the last remaining member of the naval crew succumbing to a blow from the deadly hammer Martin likes to wield off-hand as a complement to his sword. Hook pants, surveying the carnage and taking account of his men. Relief and dark satisfaction fill him at the sight of all but Alec on their feet. 

He gives his blade a cursory cleaning on the coat of a dead officer and sheaths it before swiping the sweat from his brow. “Get a plank,” he yells across the way to the Jolly, “and two of you come help get Alec back over.” He swivels his head to the rest of the boarding party. “The rest of you look below for stragglers and then strip this ship down. Roberts, take the point.” 

“Aye!”

“Aye, Cap’n.”

“Yes, sir!”

The calls from his crew are mostly lost on him as he picks his way back over to the fallen naval captain and retrieves Emma’s dagger, drying the blade on a clean part of the man’s stained cravat and marveling at the Princess’ skill (or sheer luck) in striking their enemy in the throat from such a distance. Hook swallows hard, remembering the horrified expression she wore during the battle. _Thank the gods she wasn’t hurt_ , he thinks, tucking the dagger into his belt. 

He goes to help with Alec, his eyes falling to the dark red pool beneath the lad’s leg as he approaches, the tang of his own blood still fresh on his tongue. Hook clenches his jaw as he helps hoist Alec onto a makeshift stretcher. It could be _her_ blood beneath his boots or her lifeless body lying crumpled on the deck. His stomach wrenches at the prospect. Emma’s disobedience in battle is unacceptable. When he gets back to the ship, his first order of business is to make sure she understands that such a thing can never happen again.

 

* * *

 

Swan seethes, hands planted wide on the shelf next to the Captain’s windows. She grinds her teeth and slams her fist against the wood, the pain that blooms in her hand nothing compared to the frustration in her chest. Why is she here? What ever made her think this was a good idea – running away on a pirate ship, letting herself be charmed by a lawless man with a reputation for womanizing, becoming friendly with his crew? Now she’s killed a military officer in the defense of a group of fugitives who, by all accounts, have a long string of crimes to answer for. Who is she, and whose side is she meant to be on?

The heat of confused tears is rising behind her eyes when a commotion in the corridor causes her to lift her head and turn from the window. At the sound of familiar voices, she throws open the door to reveal a couple of the men hauling Alec into one of the crew quarters on a stretcher with Hook bringing up the rear.

“Alec?” she asks, coming forward and craning her head to see.

Hook nods, his expression stony. His lower lip is bloodied, and a new cut swoops across his right cheek. “Wounded in the leg.” He storms past her toward his cabin. “The others will see to him. Come.”

She follows, her stomach tightening as she notes the ire in his pace and the displeasure that radiates from him. 

He rounds on her the moment she closes the door behind them. “What the bloody hell were you doing?” he demands, pulling her dagger from his belt and setting it forcefully down on the table with a hollow clatter. “I told you to stay below!”

Swan stands her ground, the threat of tears surging once again as she glares back at him. “I’m sorry, I— ”

“You could have been hurt!”

“I can take care of myself. I saved your life!” she retorts angrily, eyes stinging as the first fat drop escapes down her cheek. 

“Yes, after you distracted me and nearly got me killed!” He turns away and runs an agitated hand through his hair.

She collapses into a chair and drops her face into her hands, flooded with guilt both for endangering Hook and for killing the navy captain. The image of the latter falling with her blade jutting from his neck and the light fading from his wide eyes replays in her mind, and she tries to keep her shoulders from shaking while she shudders and sniffles. For a long moment, her ragged breaths are the only sound between them.

Then there’s the scrape of a chair across the floor, and Hook seats himself in front of her so they’re nearly knee-to-knee, hunching forward to level his face with hers. When at last he speaks, his voice is much quieter and filled with regret. “We’re pirates, love. What we do is dangerous. You can’t interfere.”

Swan looks up, swiping the moisture from her lashes and forcing herself to inhale deeply. His expression is softer now, grave, almost heartbroken, and she doesn’t know whether the way his eyes call to her should reassure her that she did was the right thing or confuse her all the more. “I wasn’t trying to interfere. I was trying to help. I have a sword, Hook, and I know how to use it. I couldn’t just sit by while the rest of you…” She bites her lip. “I was worried.”

Penitence ghosts across his face, and Hook heaves a deep sigh of resignation. He studies her red-rimmed eyes and reaches up to dab gingerly at her tears with the back of his curled fingers.

The intimacy of the act makes her want to thrust herself forward into his arms, but she closes her eyes and beats back the temptation. When she looks at him again, her gaze falls to the cut across his cheek. “That needs cleaning,” she says numbly. She pulls away and rises, moving to the washstand in the corner in order to pour casked water from his pitcher into the basin. The water sloshes quietly as she dunks a clean handkerchief and wrings it out, and she clears her throat, reaching down to rummage around in the cabinet of the washstand where she knows he keeps his quality rum. A bottle lands on the table with a dull thud as she returns to stand beside his chair.

Hook snatches it up and pops the cork. “Why, thank you, Swan.”

She rolls her eyes, intercepting the rum halfway to his lips and plunking it back down. “It’s not for you,” she scolds flatly. Her withering stare transforms his look of protest into one of begrudging submission, and he settles back in his seat as she raises the wet handkerchief. “Hold still.”

The cabin is quiet as Swan busies herself with gently wiping the blood, grime, and gunpowder residue off his face. His shoulders relax and his eyes fall shut while she works, only opening again when she pauses to pour a little rum onto a clean corner of the handkerchief. She thrusts the open bottle back into his hand with a pointed sniff, and the grin that begins to form on his lips is quickly neutralized by the sting of the alcohol as she applies the cloth to his cut.

To his credit, he tolerates her ministrations stoically, his blue eyes now fixed on her face. Her pulse gallops under his enigmatic gaze, but she tries to keep her expression aloof and focus on the task at hand. A huff marks her satisfaction when she pulls back to inspect her work. Swan gives the cut one last dab. He’ll probably have a scar there, but at least the wound is clean and dry and less likely to become infected. 

She finishes by touching the handkerchief softly to the split in his lip, glancing at the untouched bottle still in his hand. “I thought you wanted a drink.”

He holds it out to her. “Ladies first.”

Swan gives him an exasperated side-eye but accepts the bottle and takes a larger swallow than absolutely necessary, coughing as the sweet liquor burns its way down her throat.

Hook smirks and takes the bottle back, his Adam’s apple bobbing in distracting fashion as he indulges in his own long draught. He grimaces and breathes a satisfied sigh, setting the rum back on the table. “Thank you,” he says quietly, his eyes remaining on the bottle. “For worrying. And for saving my life. And this.” He gestures toward his face. 

She considers him a moment, the last of her anger ebbing away. “You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t know you cared.” He looks up and scratches behind his ear. 

Swan rolls her eyes again and gives an impatient huff. “Of course I care.” 

The way his expression brightens suddenly makes her feel overexposed by her answer. She forces her eyes to his tattoo as reminder of where his heart lies and silently chides herself for caring too much. Her throat is tight as she swallows and manages a wan smile. “That’s what friends do, isn’t it?” 

He blinks, his gaze falling to the table and his smile fading into a rueful grin. “Aye, that’s what friends do.”

“Besides, who else is going to help me figure out who I am?” she points out with weak chuckle. Her feet carry her toward the door, and she pauses, biting her lip. “I, um, I’m going to look in on Alec and then maybe lie down for a bit.”

“Are you alright, Swan?” he asks, concern in his voice.

“Yeah.” Her answer comes too fast, and she winces inwardly. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

He hesitates, as though trying to decide whether she’s telling the truth. “I’ll see you for dinner?”

She throws him a small smile and a nod over her shoulder before she takes her leave, giving in to the sudden, overwhelming desire to regroup somewhere where his probing gaze doesn’t make her feel like she has to be so painfully honest with him or herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * illustration by @waiting-for-autumn (http://waiting-for-autumn.tumblr.com/post/165542228193/the-dance-second-piece-for-pocket-anon)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reception for this story continues to be so generous, and I can't thank you guys enough. I spent so many months anxious about whether anyone would like this fic, whether there would still be an audience for it, whether it would be worth the ~~hundreds~~ thousands of hours I've spent laboring over it/thinking about it/tweaking and re-tweaking it - but you all have been incredibly sweet and supportive, and I'm so grateful to everyone for cheering me on. Hope you enjoy this week's installment!

Alec is back on his feet in several days, though he continues to be hobbled by his injury and he’s restricted to light duties like mending sails and cleaning weapons. Swan begins to keep him company under the guise of having him teach her these skills, and when every sail is repaired and every gun, canon, sword, and dagger aboard polished to a shine, she goads him into spending another morning teaching her how to tie different kinds of sailor’s knots.

The youngest member of the crew takes her attention in stride. “If you spend any more time with me, ma’am,” he jokes on their fourth morning together, “Cap’n’s bound to get jealous.”

Swan hums, the side of her mouth quirking. “The Captain is a grown man who can afford not to be the center of a woman’s attention all the time,” she replies airily, picking her latest knot out of her piece of practice rope. “Heaven knows he’s probably had enough women fawning over him to last a lifetime.”

Alec chortles and agrees with a bob of his shiny, bald head. “Even so – and not that it’s any o’ my business, milady,” he says quietly, darting a glance up at the ship’s wheel where Hook is talking with the helmsman, “when I see a man look at a lady the way Cap’n does you, it’s generally safer t’ keep my distance.”

“Hmph.” Swan wills her cheeks not to warm and tries to ignore the way her heartbeat quickens at the implication. “If the Captain looks at me differently, it’s because he thinks our friendship is a good investment,” she points out. The knot finally comes undone, and she twirls the rope triumphantly in her hands. “And if he has expectations with regard to how I spend my time, he hasn’t told me.”

“Pretty sure he knows better than that, ma’am.”

She huffs and flashes Alec a grin, her eyes laughing. “Well, at least all his time around women has taught him a thing or two.” She stands and offers him a hand. “It’s almost lunchtime. Do you have other duties, or can I walk you to the mess?”

He waves her off and grabs the wooden staff he’s been using for support. “I think I can do it.” He plants the staff on deck and pauses for a deep breath before he hoists himself up with a strained grunt. Swan gasps when he suddenly hisses and teeters, an agonized sound escaping him as he crashes to the boards.

“Alec?” she yelps. She whirls toward the stern deck. “Hook? Help!”

The Captain’s head whips around at her call, and he all but flies down the ladder, reaching them as quickly as any of the other men. He gently nudges her to the side and kneels next to his fallen crewman. “What is it, lad? The leg?”

Alec groans and nods, rolling over on to his back with pain creasing his forehead. “It’s been worse since last night,” he confesses.

Hook works quickly to untie the wide bandages encircling his thigh and carefully peels back the edges of the split in the Alec’s trouser leg, which is stiff with dried blood from the original injury. His lips form a thin line as he peers at the exposed skin. The flesh near the edges of the laceration is tinged a beefy red and so swollen it resembles the skin of an orange. “This doesn’t look well,” he mutters. He glances up at the other men standing by. “Get him below and cut the trouser leg off,” he orders, gesturing at the soiled fabric. “Find him a clean bandage, and no further duties until he’s healed.” He stands up and allows Martin and Smee through so they can bear Alec up on his good leg and help him away.

Swan appears at his side, anxious. “Will he be alright?” she asks softly.

Hook sighs, suddenly looking very world-weary. “I don’t know,” he admits once Alec is out of earshot. “I’ve seen the same happen to many a sailor. We’ll watch it closely. If it gets much worse, he may have to choose between losing the leg or losing his life.”

The color leaves her face, and he turns and wordlessly takes her hand, settling it in the crook of his left elbow as he escorts her toward the hatch leading to his quarters. He’s silent for a few paces. “You’re worried about him.”

“Of course I am,” she replies with a puzzled frown. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“No, it’s just…” He scratches the back of his head with his brace, his eyes on his toes. “I’m still surprised that you’ve come to care about a band of pirates, I suppose.” His brows lift. “Unless there’s something special about Alec?”

For some reason, the question sets Swan brimming with impatience, and she rolls her eyes, in no mood for his teasing. “Really?” she demands. When his only answer is an enigmatic shrug, she huffs. “Alec’s tall and he can swing a sword, but he’s still barely more than a boy, Hook.” She pulls a face. “An _actual_ boy, not a one hundred fifty year-old in a boy’s body; I know you brought him on after Neverland.” She sighs, forehead lined with concern. “He’s a kid, and he’s hurt and scared and… and I just thought he could use a little company these last few days.”

Hook nods slowly, his expression turning touched and a little sad as he brings his hand up to cover hers. “You’re right,” he murmurs apologetically. “You’ve shown him a great kindness. We aren’t used to such things, but he needs all of it he can get now. There’s a good chance this week does not end well for him, one way or another.”

Swan swallows the enormous lump that rises in her throat. “Maybe he’d let me read to him,” she offers in a small voice. It feels like so little – like nothing – but it’s all she can think of.

Hook flashes her a muted smile. “I’m sure he’d appreciate that, love. Few sailors are lucky enough to have a good-hearted woman to help look after them in times like this. Your presence is a gift to this crew.” His fingers tighten affectionately over hers, and his eyes fall back to the deck, his tone growing somewhat despondent. “I think you’ll be sorely missed.”

She blinks rapidly at his sentiment, her mouth forming a watery little smile, and as they descend below deck to have lunch, her heart feels heavy, weighed down by the cloud of Alec’s predicament and churning with mixed feelings. She chuffs silently. Leave it to Killian Jones to surprise her again. He may have tried to tease her about her relationship with Alec, but contrary to his crewman’s suggestion, he doesn’t seem jealous – not really. She should be glad for that, impressed by that. Instead she feels more than a tiny prick of disappointment. And more than a little vexed at how she feels.

Lunch is quiet, the mood solemn, and though she catches Hook’s eyes on her from time to time, the pair of them remain largely lost in their own thoughts. Swan finishes quickly and hops up to select a book for Alec. “What do you think he’d like?” she muses, walking her fingers across the titles.

“Captain?”

Their heads turn toward the muffled call and the sound of rapidly encroaching footsteps in the passageway outside. A hand knocks fervently on the door.

Hook finishes his last bite and brushes a stray crumb from the corner of his mouth. “What is it, Smee?” he answers.

The knob turns, and Smee pops in. “A ship, sir,” he reports. “Packet, by the looks of it.”

Hook frowns. “Slavers?”

“Probably.”

“Slavers?” Swan’s voice draws their attention.

Hook turns toward her, his countenance darkened. “Aye. This close to the Foundering Islands, a ship like that is almost certainly carrying fresh prisoners of war to the slave markets east of here.” He glances back at his first mate. “Maintain course and speed, Smee. I’ll come up shortly.”

Smee gives a hasty nod and scuttles away.

The door closes behind him, and a sigh passes Hook’s lips. He rises and reaches for his sword belt.

Swan watches him put it on. “Are you going to engage them?” 

To her confusion, he shakes his head as he does up the buckle. “Not likely. Every choice to engage is a calculated risk, love. We’re a man down now, and there isn't much to be gained from attacking a ship like this. Slavers can be a nasty lot, and we’re not in the business of capturing or selling slaves.” He reaches for his coat with a scowl. “It’s a disgusting practice.”

Her brow creases in thought. “What if… what if you took the ship but set the slaves free?” She meets his confounded look with an earnest stare. "You could help them."

Hook blinks, conflicting emotions writing themselves all over his face. “Swan…”

“No, think about it. You became a pirate to escape service to a ruthless king,” she argues, her voice growing bolder. “Why should all those people stay condemned to life under a master if the Jolly can save them?”

He flexes his jaw with indignation. “I’m not in the business of risking my crew in order to play hero.” 

“What if the crew thought it was worth the risk?” 

Hook's countenance hardens, and he looks away, his gaze dropping to the floor as he turns to leave. He strides away without another word, and she watches the door shut behind him with sad eyes, frustration dragging her stomach down to the depths and leaving her unsure whether to appreciate or regret this acute reminder that, regardless of whatever misguided feelings she may harbor for the Captain, she may have put her faith in his good heart too soon.

 

* * *

 

His boots fall heavy on the deck as Hook stalks across the boards to join Smee at the wheel, his chest still aching from the disappointment on Emma’s face. 

“Steady at your ten o’clock, sir,” Smee informs him briskly, nodding toward the northwest horizon. 

Hook squints at the telltale rig configuration of the smaller vessel, his lips pressed into a grim line as he pulls out his spyglass and examines the ship more closely.

“I assume we’re leaving them alone?”

He licks his lips and stows his glass, his eyes landing upon the angry scratches that zigzag across the worn surface of the black sideboard next to the ship’s wheel.

_It’s not too late to start over. I can change, Bae. For you._

_You say that. I know you’ll never change, because all you care about is yourself._

The last conversation he had with Baelfire in Neverland years ago leaps into his mind – the last time he hoped for a happy ending for himself and someone he cared for. The last time that someone had looked on him with hope fading from their eyes. 

Hook stares intently at what remains of the ‘P’ and ‘S’ he once carved to orient the lad to the sides of the ship – letters obliterated in a fit of rage – and he swallows thickly. Regret slams down on him like a tidal wave as he remembers how he chose self-preservation over courage and anger over contrition, betraying Bae to the Lost Boys the moment he and the lad had had a falling out. _Coward._ His hand curls into a fist. 

He won’t lose his chance with Emma. Not like this.

“Call all hands on deck,” he says quietly.

Smee turns. “Sir?”

Hook fixes the other ship with a determined glare. “All hands,” he repeats flatly. “I need to address the crew.”

Though clearly perplexed by the demand, Smee knows better than to ask questions. He closes his open mouth and hurries away, and five minutes later the men are assembled around the main-mast, murmuring amongst themselves at this unexpected summoning.

Hook stands above them on the stern deck, his hand resting on the rail near the ship’s bell.

“I’ve called you here,” he calls, “with an opportunity.” His voice rings out across the Jolly, and every set of eyes is upon him. “To port lies what is most likely a ship belonging to slavers, men who put a price on flesh and trade other people as if they were chattel. It’s been our custom to let slavers alone because I refuse to make a profit off of cargo that shouldn’t be cargo and because we don’t raise swords for anything other than profit or revenge.”

Sounds of agreement ripple through the crew.

“But I am proposing a change,” he continues. “I claimed this ship and turned pirate to free myself from the service of a king who used loyal men like me as puppets. He betrayed my trust, and my brother died because of his treachery. We,” he says, gritting his teeth, his eyes flitting over the faces of those assembled, “are men of honor. We live by a code. We go where we please and take what we like and answer to no one but each other.” Cheers ring out, and he yanks his cutlass from the scabbard and swings it toward the other ship, his voice rising. “And I say it is a foul thing for us to claim to value freedom but turn a blind eye to cruel men who make a living depriving others of it!” he bellows. His heart rams against his ribs. “I know there is risk and little profit to be had,” he admits, “but we are the most able crew to sail the seas, and for the sake of our decency and our self-respect as pirates, I say we take those bloody slavers down! Will you stand with me?”

Roars of approval fill his ears, fists jutting into the air in solidarity, and the voices of his men form an enthusiastic chorus as they chant, “Captain Hook! Captain Hook!”

Hook hears movement and a gratified hum behind him and turns to see Emma standing nearby, her ponytail flapping over one shoulder like a victory banner on the breeze. She leans against the sideboard, her face bright, her cheeks rosy, and her small smile brighter than the sun. Hope fills him anew when she gives him a little nod, and he nods back. _Perhaps there’s something more valuable than gold or jewels or even revenge worth fighting for now_ , he thinks.

He allows her to remain on deck as they shift course to intercept the other ship, and Swan watches with sober fascination as they hoist the colors and fire the customary warning shot. As expected, the slavers refuse to surrender.

“Leave them alive, if you can,” Hook barks on the Jolly’s approach. “I want to send a message.” 

He turns back to Emma. “I know how you feel about being asked to stay below, love,” he acknowledges gently, “but perhaps you’ll oblige me this time?”

He considers it a small miracle when she concedes without protest. Emma turns toward the hatch to his quarters, pausing to lay her hand on his shoulder and gaze up at him with anxious eyes. “Be careful?”

He gives her a soft smirk and risks reaching forward to cup her face, his thumb drifting softly across her skin. “You try not to worry, and I'll try not to need a daring rescue today. Alright?” His heart leaps at the way she blushes, a chuckle playing on her lips as she heads down below.

The crew of the slave ship numbers about fifteen, and though they put up a fight, this particular group proves no match for the men of the Jolly Roger, even with the latter utilizing non-deadly force. Within twenty minutes, the slavers find themselves trounced, bound, and forced to huddle in the center of the main deck, their expressions a mixture of anger, resentment, and fear as they eye the pirates that form a tight circle around them. 

“Which one of you is in charge?” Hook demands, striding forward. Glances dart toward a heavy-set scoundrel with a barrel chest and a bald head whose skin is bronzed and leathery from the sun. Hook tips his chin at him. “You.” 

The man raises his dark, beady eyes.

“You know who I am?” He sees the slaver glance at his hook, and he smiles coldly. “You do. Excellent. So you know how lucky you and your men are to still be alive.” His face hints at a snarl. “You are being given quarter this once in order to deliver a message to your fellows in the slave trade.” Hook lifts his head and raises his voice. “Personal freedom is not a commodity to be bought and sold, and as pirates, we can be indifferent no more,” he announces. “You are no longer safe from our interference. We will demand surrender from any slave ship we come across, and we will encourage our brethren to do the same.” He draws his sword on them, his voice taking on a deadly timbre. “You are relieved of this ship and everything and everyone aboard. Get to your boats and go before I decide to stop being generous.”

Most of the slavers climb to their feet and shuffle off under the escort of his men, but their leader lags behind and glowers at Hook. “So you steal property and yet suppose yourself the better man,” he sneers.

Hook launches forward, his blade slicing through the air and biting the flesh just below the other man’s jaw. “ _People_ ,” he hisses, rotating the sword edge with excruciating slowness until it just barely draws blood, “are not property. And I’m a better man now than when I allowed you to continue this bloody business unfettered.” He hooks a large loop of keys off the man’s belt and plants a boot in his stomach, watching with grave satisfaction as the slaver wheels across the deck and crashes into the gunwhale with a tortured grunt. The man crumbles to his knees, and Hook snorts. “Get him out of my sight.”

He finds his way below, and his stomach churns increasingly as he draws closer to the hold, the air growing uncomfortably warm and thick with the stench of unwashed bodies and human foulness. He finds Martin and Roberts waiting for him at the hatch with revulsion in their eyes.

“Are there many?” he asks quietly.

Martin nods, his expression grim. “Aye, Captain. See for yourself.” He steps aside, and the open hatch comes into view. 

The heat and smells are immediately magnified, hitting him in the face like a sordid cloud as Hook kneels and peers down into the dimly lit space, and it takes everything he has not to retch. He looks away for a second, face clenched in a grimace, before steeling himself and turning back to examine the hold. The terrified eyes of men, women, and even some older children stare back up at him. The light of a few hanging lanterns casts shadows across their faces, and he can see that they’re packed shoulder-to-shoulder like livestock, the close and distant clinking of their chains confirming for him that the entire hold is full with bodies.

His gaze locks onto a boy, aged perhaps eleven or twelve, with shaggy dark hair. The lad’s pale, round face is smudged with tears and filth and set with wide, timid eyes, and something in Hook’s chest wrenches as his own time as slave to a series of hardened captains – six years of childhood that was several lifetimes ago – suddenly feels as though it’s not so far away. Fury flares in his blood. “Get them out,” he growls, managing to hide the quaver in his voice as he tosses Martin the ring of keys, “and see if any of them knows how to sail this vessel home.”

He hurries back above deck, pausing under the guise of visually inspecting the sails in order to catch a few deep lungfuls of the ocean air and allow his pulse to stop hammering. His ears pick up the steady squeaking of pulleys as his men lower the boats full of slavers astern, and there’s a pair of splashes when they finally hit the water. _Good riddance._

Hook hustles to the aft rail to watch the slavers depart. Pistols emerge, and a handful of his men train their weapons on the boats to keep the other crew in line as they go. His eyes dart over to the Jolly and to the hatch leading to his quarters, and the thought of Emma holed up safely below while the slavers row in the opposite direction brings a relieved sigh to his lips as he looks to Thomas and Smee standing guard on the Jolly’s deck and gives them a grateful nod. 

The sound of dozens of footfalls causes him to turn around, and satisfaction curves his mouth at the sight of the first of the former slaves climbing up and out into the sunlight. Many cringe and duck behind their hands as they adjust to the brightness, but there is excited chatter amongst them, and though he can see plenty of arms and legs adorned with red marks, the irons that caused them have been abandoned below.

All told, over fifty people emerge from the hold, followed by Roberts and Martin, who appear as happy as any of them to be out of the bowels of the ship. 

Hook approaches. “That’s everyone?”

Martin swipes his sleeve over his damp brow, looking weary. “Yessir.”

“Can they sail?”

He bobs his head. “Aye. I counted a dozen of them who identified as seafarers. They think they can manage.”

“Provisions?” Hook turns to Roberts.

The quartermaster hums the affirmative. “Stores’re fine. They’ll do alright, I think. They estimate their homeland’s less than a week from here.” He scratches at the base of his neck. “Shall we investigate the crew quarters, Captain?”

Hook smirks half-heartedly. “Of course, Old Man. What kind of pirate do you take me for?”

It’s not a huge haul, and much of what they find by way of clothing and linens they leave for the former slaves, but they do locate a fairly generous purse in the main cabin and some useful supplies worth scavenging – weapons and ammunition, extra lantern oil and wicks intended for the slavers’ return trip from market, parchment and writing supplies, pipe tobacco, and a few bottles of quality spirits. The Captain hums with approval as he finishes counting the money with Roberts and seals the coins back into the satchel.

“Not a bad day’s work, eh, sir?” Roberts asks, accepting the purse for safe-keeping until it can be divided amongst the crew.

“No.” Hook leads him back up the ladder, savoring the swirl of wind that greets him when they emerge on deck. He takes in the scene before them. Some of the former slaves inspect the rigging while explaining the structure of the ship to the less experienced sailors, others haul buckets of water from the sea in order to wash, and children weave in and out of the crowd like a school of fish as they chase each other across the deck. Their youthful laughter fills the air, and Hook cranes his head to watch the lad he saw before scramble by with his mates, all traces of fear gone from his small face. Where once the deck of this ship was dour, it’s now filled with life, with _hope_ , and this, this is their doing. _Correction_ , he thinks. This is Emma’s doing _through_ them. This is the work of an angel. “No,” he says, his chest swelling with a peace he hasn’t known in a long time. “Not a bad day’s work at all.”

 

* * *

 

The taking of the slave ship is a much quieter affair than their run-in with the pirate hunters had been, and Swan has the benefit of company to distract her now as she waits below deck. She knocks on the open door of the crew quarters and pokes her head in. “Alec?”

Faced away from her in his berth, the young man cranes his neck, arching a bit off his pillow to meet her eye. “Milady?”

She steps across the threshold, cradling a book in her arms. “Mind if I wait here with you?” she asks, coming in to stand in front of a bench across from him. “I could use a distraction.”

He smiles appreciatively and nods, gesturing for her to have a seat. “Me too.” 

She settles down, pulling her legs up under her in order to sit cross-legged. “How do you feel?” she asks, studying him. As Hook had ordered, the fabric of his trousers has been completely cut away to expose his leg, and a clean bandage is wrapped around his wound.

Alec makes a noncommittal noise. “The pain’s not bad when I don’t stand.” He looks up at her, his face guilty. “I’m sorry if I frightened you earlier, ma’am.”

She shakes her head. “It’s alright. I’m sorry I didn’t notice you weren’t feeling well today.”

“Nah. S’nothing,” he says, attempting to sound cavalier. He glances at her book. “What’s that?”

Swan holds it up for him. “ _Legends of the Deep_. I’ve been working my way through the Captain’s collection. Do you know it?”

Now it’s Alec who shakes his head. “Never been very good at readin’, t’ be honest.”

“Perhaps I could read it aloud?”

He brightens. “I’d be much obliged, ma’am.”

Swan grins and pulls the book open to the first page. She clears her throat and wets her lips. “ _It is said that the sea is an enchanting place, full of beauty and mysteries beyond the comprehension of mortal men…_ ”

She’s a dozen pages in when the sound of Alec’s snoring causes her to look up. A muted smile plays on her mouth, and she sighs, softly swinging the cover shut. Her eyes fall to his leg, and worry wrinkles her forehead once more as she rises and slips out of the cabin, pulling the door softly closed behind her. 

Standing in the corridor, she glances briefly in the direction of the Captain’s quarters, gnawing at her lip before she decides to climb the ladder to the hatch instead, her heart pounding as she eases it open just a few inches so she can peek outside.

Her ears strain for clues as to what’s going on, and she grows excited several moments later when a familiar pair of boots passes a few feet from her nose. “Thomas! Thomas!” she hisses.

The boots turn to face her, and Thomas kneels, his amused expression coming into view as he cants his head sideways to meet her eye. “Milady?” 

Heat creeps up from her neck, and she suddenly feels a little silly. “Is everything going alright?”

He chuckles. “Very well, ma’am. The slavers are being loaded into boats as we speak. We’ll see that they leave without any trouble,” he assures her, patting the gun tucked into his belt. “Cap’n’s gone below to see to the slaves, I think.”

Swan exhales, a relieved smile coming over her face. “That’s good.”

“Aye.” He nods with a grin. “Sit tight, ma’am. It might take ‘em a bit to get sorted, but I imagine we’ll have everyone back aboard soon enough.”

She beams and retreats, feeling much more content as she descends the ladder. _They’re safe. He did it._ Pride in the Captain brings a private smile to her lips, and her heart flutters. She gives a relieved huff. Perhaps she wasn’t so far off in her read of him as she feared. 

She elects to continue reading in his quarters where the light is better, hunching over his table with the book open in front of her. Within minutes, however, her own eyelids grow heavy and her head begins to loll with the weight of sleep.

 

* * *

 

“Swan?” Hook eyes her still form and murmurs her name, wearing a soft expression as he moves around his table to stand beside her. He pauses a moment to study the serenity on her face and the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders with each breath. Her long lashes are dusky against her cheeks, her exquisite features blissfully free of emotion, and she rests on the table, her head cradled on one folded arm while the fingers of her other hand grace the cover of an open, overturned book. A wavy lock of her hair lies haphazardly draped over her eyes, and she’s so achingly beautiful that his chest hurts. 

He has no clue what he’s done to deserve time with this woman, but he was guilty of understatement when he called her a gift to his crew. Her presence has infused the Jolly with a new sense of life and excitement and given the men a fresh collective purpose in keeping her safe and delivering her home. He’s watched them over the past several weeks – noticed them smiling more freely and singing more heartily. He’s seen them beam proudly every time they make the Princess laugh. He might be completely besotted, but it’s clear they’re all a little in love with her, and the prospect of leaving her behind in Misthaven makes him so melancholy that he’s wished more than once for an excuse to prolong their journey with an unplanned stop in port or a detour to a less direct course. He feels a pang of guilt about it now that Alec’s condition actually makes a stop in a port to find a surgeon a real necessity.

A small voice inside tells him not to wake her, but it’s as though his hand has a mind of its own when he reaches forward and delicately brushes her hair out of her face. The graze of his fingertips over her forehead causes Emma to stir. She sucks in a deep breath and wrinkles her brow, and he pulls his hand away just before she opens her eyes and looks up at him.

Her face lights up, and she sits up hastily, looking a bit embarrassed to have fallen asleep. “You’re back.”

He relaxes and nods. “Aye. Some of the men are still on the other ship conferring with the people about how they plan to sail her home, but I wanted to come check on you.”

Emma eyes him proudly. “You did it then. You set them free.”

His cheeks warm. “Yes, well, someone convinced me it was the right thing to do,” he reminds her, glancing at the toes of his boots with an uncharacteristically humble grin.

“And here they say Captain Hook doesn’t care about anyone but himself,” she teases.

He looks back up at her, considering her statement with a pained smile. “Maybe I just needed reminding that I could,” he says at last.

The admission hangs between them for a moment, and his heart somehow feels both heavier and lighter for having made it. Emma’s expression sobers as she studies the emotions flitting across his face with that soul-searching stare of hers, and, though he can’t identify all of the feelings jumbled up inside him, he realizes that, for the first time, he’s not as afraid of what she might see.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry this chapter is coming out this late in the day, guys. Real life has been very hectic this week between work and lecture slide prep and doctor's appointments and car issues and mommyhood. I'm pretty physically and mentally exhausted right now, so I hope my last-minute editing choices for this chapter aren't terrible, LOL. We'll see. Anyway, thank you all for your wonderful feedback and your serial reblogs and your flailing tags. I really hope you continue to enjoy! Please remember the nautical terms glossary is here (http://pocket-anon.tumblr.com/post/164518357577/glossary-shipnautical-terminology) - it's newly updated for the events of this chapter! Happy reading.

The Jolly alters course to make for the nearest port large enough to have a surgeon in residence. Swan begins to devote a couple hours a day to reading to Alec, and Hook even allows her to assume some of the waylaid sailor’s responsibilities, including his shifts as lookout high up on the fore-mast.

Despite the seriousness of the circumstances, she has to admit she enjoys being useful and trusted aboard ship, and though Hook continues to insist she wear the tether, she doesn’t miss the proud light in his eye each time he watches her scamper up the rigging.

“To your post, Swan,” he says with a smile one morning as he reaches out in passing and gives the knot on her harness a playful tug.

She flashes him a grin over her shoulder and swings up onto the shroud. “Aye aye, Captain.”

Her hours spent perched upon the top and staring out at the horizon from between the sails are largely uneventful, but they afford her more time to enjoy the view and to be alone with her thoughts. She’s disconcerted to find, however, that most of those thoughts seem to center around Hook, and the more she tries to focus on other subjects, the more annoyed she is each time her brain finds a way to wander back to him. 

There’s something different about him since their encounter with the slavers. He’s quieter, slower to anger. When Thomas collides with him and nearly spills a can of paint, the way Hook simply receives the young man’s effusive apology with a patient nod and moves on leaves Thomas’ jaw on the deck. It’s as though he’s found a small measure of peace somewhere, and every time Swan spies that contented, introspective look on his face, it tempts her to believe that perhaps even a man as tortured as Captain Hook can find his good heart again. 

She should be pleased for him, she thinks. And she is. But if it was hard not to find him irresistible before, it’s nigh impossible now.

_He’s a charming bastard, isn’t he? You certainly aren’t the first to pine after him._

She won’t be the last either, she knows. She’s just one in a long string of starry-eyed wenches, smitten harlots, bored wives, and who knows who else. But unlike those women, she’s stuck in close quarters with him, and the burden of being forced to spend so much time with a man she shouldn’t want but does wears on her more acutely as the days march on.

_Is that what you’re hoping for? A life of unfulfilled pining?_

It isn’t, Swan thinks bitterly. But it’s looking more and more likely all the same.

She’s ruminating on this for the hundredth time and staring glumly at the endless waves on her third afternoon on duty when a sudden disruption in the distance causes her to squint. She frowns, wondering if her eyes are playing tricks, and reaches for the lookout’s spyglass, her curious gaze fixed on the water as she extends the scope and raises it to her eye. The area in question jumps into clear view, and she searches the churning waters for a few moments before she sees it again – a short spurt of mist that shoots upward out of the sea. She glances below to where the Captain and a few of the men are sparring. “Hook?”

The clanging of steel stops. “Swan?”

She raises the glass to her eye again and tries to relocate the disturbance. “There’s something in the water,” she calls. “I can’t tell what it is.”

She hears Hook sheath his cutlass. “Where, love?”

“Um…” She peers through the lens and points. “There. Off the starboard bow.”

The rigging shakes as he scrambles up to join her. He’s halfway to the top when she spies another spray of water.

“There!” she says excitedly. “Did you see that?” Her heart pounds as she catches sight of a dark form that breaks the surface briefly and disappears beneath the waves. Another similar form bobs into view seconds later.

Hook pauses to pull out his own spyglass and search the horizon for a glimpse of what she sees. At last he chuckles. “Whales!” he yells to the rest of the men on deck. “Two points off the starboard bow and approaching. Helmsman!”

“Aye?”

“Maintain our heading but move us a bit to port! Let’s give the beasts some room!” He stows his glass and climbs the rest of the way, pulling himself up onto the top with a boyish grin.

Swan scoots over a bit to make room on the small platform. “Whales?” she asks with fascination.

“Quite,” he says, settling next to her, his knee grazing hers. “It’s just a small pod. I take it you’ve never seen their kind.” She shakes her head, and he nods in return. “They’re generally peaceful creatures, but they’re large and powerful. Best to give them a wide berth unless you’re trying to hunt one.”

She looks through her glass again and spies the distinct shape of a broad, lunate tail arcing out of the water, her mouth curving into an awed smile.

“There’s a young one among them,” he observes. “In the middle. Do you see it? The tail that’s smaller than the others?”

A moment later her eyes widen. “Oh! Yes!” The miniature fins flap above the waves as if waving hello, and she coos. “It’s a happy little family.”

“Indeed.”

She falls silent for a few breaths, watching the whales as they draw closer to the Jolly. “I wish I could remember _my_ family,” she says at last, her expression growing wistful.

“You’ll be with them again soon enough, Princess,” he assures her quietly.

Swan casts a sideways glance as she considers him. “You’re still confident.”

He chuffs. “Of course I am,” he quips, straightening a little. “It’s my business to be.”

“Right. Dashing rapscallion.” Swan smirks.

He flashes a winning grin on cue and leans toward her a bit, his low chuckle generating a shiver deep between her shoulder blades. “Always knew you were a fast learner.”

She hates herself for the way her face grows hot and her heart accelerates, and she feels the sudden impulse to flee and try to regain her faculties somewhere where this stupidly handsome man isn’t being so stupidly handsome. Remembering she’s technically on duty as lookout and unable to flee anywhere, however, she settles for forcing her gaze away, raising the spyglass with both hands and making a show of trying to find the whales once again. 

One of the creatures abruptly launches out of the water, a hulking dark shape that somehow manages a graceful twirl in the air like a dancer in slow motion before crashing back down to the waves. Swan lets out a cry of surprise, and she reaches out blindly to give Hook’s arm an excited shake. “Did you see that?”

The rich sound of his laugh greets her ears. “Aye. They do that sometimes,” he says. He dares to lean in further. “Keep watching. We might see it again.”

The warmth of his breath on her skin makes Swan turn from her spyglass to find his nose inches from hers, and her stomach swoops as they stare at one another for what feels like a protracted moment in time. Hook searches her face, the mischief in his eyes fading into something almost earnest, and he swallows, the movement of his throat drawing her eyes down. Her gaze alights on his mouth before she realizes what she’s doing, and her pulse stutters.

A sudden shout from one of the men startles her, and her head whips around in time to see another huge whale leaping out of the water, this one only a few hundred feet off the starboard bow. It returns to the ocean with a great _whump_ and a huge white cloud of spray, and Emma chuckles nervously, praying that her cheeks are not as pink as she thinks they are and willing her heart to stop thundering in her ears. 

She turns to offer Hook a weak smile, but he isn’t looking at her, instead distracted by something between them. She follows his eyes down to see her hand still resting on his brace. “Oh!” She pulls away, now fairly sure she’s blushing up to the roots of her hair. “I’m sorry.”

She’s not prepared for the way he colors in turn. “It’s quite alright, love,” he murmurs, looking both touched and a bit sad. He bumps his knee into hers half-heartedly. “No need to stand on ceremony.” He clears his throat and tips his head toward the pod. “I’m glad you’re here to see this. We sailors are accustomed to seeing whales now and then, but I imagine there are few others who get the chance.” He smiles. “Perhaps our friends have come to pay their respects to a certain _alleged_ princess.”

They watch in silence as the pod nears the Jolly and begins to pass down along her starboard side. Swan sets her spyglass down and turns, rising up on her knees to be able to see over Hook’s head. She gingerly steadies herself with a soft hand on his shoulder as she watches the dark bodies slipping above and below the waterline. “They’re so beautiful,” she breathes, peering down at the enormous silhouettes just beneath the surface.

He nods wordlessly.

Swan looks down at her hand on his shoulder. She bites her lip before gathering up the courage to give him a squeeze. “Hook?”

He turns his head to blink up at her soberly.

“I’m glad I’m here, too.”

A slow, warm smile spreads across his face. She drops her free hand onto his other shoulder, and he reaches up to cover her fingers gently with his, breaking her heart just a little bit further as they watch the whales drift away.

 

* * * 

 

The next few days are cooler and colorless, with showers covering everything and everyone in a constant state of damp. Hook offers to excuse Emma from her shifts as lookout so she can remain below deck, but she stubbornly refuses, merely choosing to wear her blue cloak to try to keep dry. Her mood seems to reflect the weather; she grows increasingly distant, more preoccupied, and not as inclined to smile or engage him in their usual banter. She spends less and less time with him outside of their meals together, busying herself with her duties and reading to Alec during the day and finding excuses to return to her cabin in the evenings instead of lingering over the dinner table with him. Hook notes these changes in her with concern. Whatever is troubling Emma, she seems determined to keep it to herself, and though he catches her looking sad on more than one occasion, she does her best to perk up a little whenever she’s aware of an audience. 

He watches her hooded figure as she sits up on the top one afternoon, his brow almost painfully furrowed and raindrops smattering his face as he longs for the power to see what invisible weight is sitting on those slender shoulders. He wonders if she’s worried about Alec’s worsening condition or if, like the rest of the men, she’s simply tired of the rain, and he sighs, trying to think of a way to lift her spirits a little. Perhaps he can grant extra rum rations for morale and coax her into an evening of cards or dice with the crew. Or perhaps he can find something she’ll like when they arrive at port later this week – a new book or a spyglass of her own or something pretty to brighten her day. She’d once mentioned her fondness for the color yellow. He wonders if it would be difficult to find yellow flowers at this time of year. He’d pay a king’s ransom for them and let her put them all over her cabin _and_ his if she liked – anything to make her smile, really. He glowers at the overhead clouds and grumbles at no one in particular. If the bloody skies would clear, that might also be a good a start.

The waters grow choppier around sundown, and the Jolly rises and falls like a rearing horse as she crests over the increasingly tall waves. Hook keeps a watchful eye on Emma when she climbs down from the mast, and he comes to meet her at the bottom of the shroud, glad he’s continued to insist on her rope tether as he notes the extra time it takes her to navigate the rigging with the ship lurching beneath them. 

“What are you still doing out here?” she asks, gritting her teeth and waiting for the deck to level before carefully hopping down.

He pushes his wet hair out of his eyes and does his best not to look cold and miserable. “Can’t a gentleman escort a lady to dinner?” 

The corner of her mouth twitches, and it’s the closest thing to a smile he’s seen all day, but there’s no time to savor it before they pitch over another swell and Emma stumbles forward with a little yelp. He catches her against him, wrapping his arm around her waist and snagging the shroud with his hook in order to keep them both upright. They struggle for a moment to right themselves, eventually managing to regain some semblance of balance while still tangled up together. Hook stares into her pensive eyes, his heart refusing to slow as he registers the desperate way one of her gloved hands is gripping the collar of his coat while the other is buried in the hair at the nape of his neck.

Emma's face grows red, a spot of bright color in their drably-lit surroundings, and she bites her lip. “Um, thanks.” 

She recoils adorably when a huge raindrop hits her square in the forehead, and Hook suddenly notices that her hood has come off. With a sigh and a resigned smile, he releases her and reaches out to lift it back onto her head. “Let’s get below and dry out a bit, yeah?” he says, delicately smoothing one side of the hood down with his hook. He gestures toward the nearest hatch, and they make for it, the ship still rocking beneath them. “After dinner, I thought perhaps we could enjoy some extra rum and cards with the crew in the mess. What do you think?”

His heart falls at the reticent sound she makes, her face hidden as she keeps her eyes on the boards. “You go ahead. I think I’m going to go to bed early tonight.”

He stops mid-step, frustration rising in his gut. “Are you avoiding me, Swan?”

Emma freezes, the guilty stiffening of her shoulders answer enough. “I… No, of course not,” she says, shaking her head and giving him a small, unconvincing smile as she leads them down the ladder. “I… I’m just tired this week.”

Hook frowns at her obvious attempt to deflect him. “I can reassign your duties if you need more rest,” he suggests, pulling the hatch closed behind them.

“No!” She winces at how loud her voice now sounds out of the wind and in the quiet of the shadowy passageway. “No. I can do it. I don’t mind. I just want to turn in a little earlier tonight.” She walks briskly past him toward his quarters. “Come on. Dinner.”

Hook grants the crew the extra rum but elects to spend the evening alone, retiring to his berth with _The Odyssey_ in order to take his mind off of Emma’s notable absence. After nearly fifteen minutes of staring, unseeing, at the same paragraph however, he closes the book and petulantly tosses it aside. His mind races as he dims the lamp and flops down on the mattress.

Has he done something to upset her? Or is she simply trying to avoid interrogation about whatever is on her mind? He gives his pillow a few vehement punches and resettles his head. Before these rainy days, things had seemed to be going well between them, and he’d started contemplating how he should go about confessing his feelings for her. But now… now he doesn’t know where he stands, and it irritates the bloody hell out of him. 

He rumbles and rolls over, his eyes scanning the beams above his head as he exhales heavily. Emma might be trying to shut him out, but he’s always claimed to love a challenge. He’ll confront her tomorrow, he thinks, coax her secret out. They’ve always been open with one another before. 

_That’s what friends do, isn’t it?_ Her voice echoes in his memory.

He snorts. _Friends._ If only that were enough.

Sleep comes to him fitfully, and when Hook is aroused from bed at first light by a very panicky Smee shouting down the hatch for him, he sits up in a foul temper. “What the blazes is it?” he demands, rubbing a hand over his face. Within a moment of opening his eyes, however, the cause of Smee’s distress becomes clear. His quarters are cast in strange hues, and Hook’s eyes snap to the windows to note the ominous red-orange glow of the clouds to the east and the relative darkness to the west. He swears an oath and leaps out of bed, dressing at record speed before flying up the ladder.

The sight that meets him above makes his stomach drop. To the southwest lies a solid wall of enormous storm clouds that appears to have coalesced under the cloak of night. It stretches as far as the eye can see, and when the wind begins to pick up and the first rumbles of thunder come rolling across the water toward them, alarm spreads across the Jolly like wildfire.

“It’s a hurricane!” Roberts hollers, hurrying to clang the ship’s bell.

Cold fear trickles down Hook’s back as he stares at the telltale skies. He’s survived many dire straits in his long life, but few things drive terror into the heart of a sailor more than being faced with a hurricane at sea. Vivid memories of the massive storm that destroyed the ship Hispaniola back when he and Liam were young men flash before his eyes. That storm had sent their last master, the hardy Captain Silver, and the rest of his experienced crew down to their watery graves. The idea of the Jolly, of his men, of _Emma_ meeting the same fate makes him feel sick, and not knowing whether he can do anything to prevent it makes him feel sicker.

“All hands!” he commands at the top of his lungs. “Get everything you can below deck and lash the rest down! Pump the bilges and batten down all but the main hatch!” He takes the wheel from the helmsman and grits his teeth as he wrenches it starboard. “We’re going to try to outrun it.”

“Not even the Jolly’s that fast!” Smee protests at his side. “That thing’ll be on us in ten minutes!”

Hook seizes the front of his first mate’s shirt and yanks him forward. “If you have a better idea, Smee, now would be the time,” he snaps. “Otherwise, get below and tell the Lady to stay down in the crew quarters with Alec until someone comes.”

The next several minutes are a bedlam of activity and a torturous march toward the inevitable as the storm, moving at twice the ship’s speed, swallows her up like a great monster. The seas grow more turbulent, the rain begins to pour, and the gusts howl around them like the voice of a great foe heralding its wrath.

“We’ll have to heave-to – see if we can ride out the storm!” Hook yells frantically, handing over the wheel and charging toward the main deck. “Helmsman, come about to beam reach! Roberts, Thomas, clew up the mainsail! Everyone else to the main-mast to brace the yards square! Back 'em winward!”

With the men on his heels, he scrambles across the swaying, rain-slogged deck. They position themselves in teams around the mast and prepare to haul lines to rotate the yards overhead. Hook cranes his head upward to watch Roberts and Thomas, the most nimble members of his crew (save Alec), scale the ropes as fast as they can to tie up the mainsail.

Emma is suddenly at his side, soaked to the skin like the rest of them with her wet ponytail limp over one shoulder. She reaches toward the rigging and wraps both hands around the line in front of him. 

The sight of her disobeying his orders and risking her neck yet again fills him with rage. _Bloody. Impossible. Woman._ “What the devil are you doing?” he bellows. “You were supposed to stay below!”

“We’re not having this argument again!” she hollers back indignantly, squinting up at him in the face of the rain. “You’re a man down, and you need more hands! Let me help!”

His growl is lost on the wind, but he hasn’t the time to argue. Hook grits his teeth and positions his hand between hers on the line. Smee joins them, and Martin assumes position behind them to keep the line taut as they pull.

Hook glances around at his crew. “Alright, men!” he calls, using his hook to untie the line and pass the end off to Martin, “Heave! Heave!” The others join with him, chanting in rhythmic unison as they tug on their lines and the yards above their heads begin to rotate about the mast.

They nearly have the sails backed to the wind when an enormous wave hits the ship, sending water sloshing across the deck and causing her to list violently. The men stumble sideways, clinging to the lines for dear life, and Emma shrieks as her footing falters. 

“Swan!” Hook throws his left arm around her waist and drags her back to his side with a deep grunt. The muscles in his right shoulder burn as the line begins to pull away without their collective strength to help anchor it. “Tie it off!” he barks over his shoulder at Martin, and the cooper’s large hands are a blur as he throws the knot back in place. 

Seconds later, another wave strikes, and a scream rings out from above. Hook looks up to see Thomas thrown from the yard arm, his body flung clear of the ship and out toward the waves.

“No!” Emma yelps and twists in his grasp, one of her hands stretching into the sky in Thomas’ direction.

And like that, Thomas’ body disappears in a swirl of white smoke.

A moment later, a second swirl of smoke leaves the lad lying face-down on the deck at their feet, coughing and gasping for breath.

“Swan?” Hook gapes and looks down at Emma, who retracts her arm and stares at her upturned palm in disbelief.

“What?” She trembles. “What just…?”

“Magic,” he breathes. He’d heard rumors that the Princess of Misthaven was secretly a sorceress, but he’d always taken the reports with a grain of salt, aware they might be the exaggerations of adoring subjects or lies spread by denied suitors. 

“Look out!” Martin booms behind them.

A shadow looms overhead, and they turn and gasp at the sight of the most massive wave Hook has ever seen cresting overhead, the roar of the water like impending doom as it rushes down upon them. A profound fear like he’s never known seizes his heart, and he draws Emma closer to him, letting go of the line just long enough to wind it around his forearm.

“Hook?” she cries, terrified.

“Hold on to me!”

Her arms wind around him beneath his coat, and as she buries her face in his shoulder, he clutches her tighter and prays to whatever gods will listen for her salvation. “Stay with me,” he whispers, his cheek pressed to her temple.

White smoke suddenly clouds his vision, obscuring the wave from sight, and the thunderous rush of the the water and the drone of the winds vanishes so quickly, he’d have thought himself struck deaf if not for the ongoing yelling around him.

Then the smoke dissipates, the darkness fades, and the Jolly heaves beneath their feet, surprised shouts ringing out from the crew as she drops a short distance and hits the water with an enormous boom. 

And then all falls still.

Hook lifts his head, still clutching Emma’s shaking form and his fingers stinging with rope burn as they continue to clench the line. The early morning sky is the palest blue, and a strong but manageable wind whispers across their bow port to starboard. He straightens slowly, baffled, and there’s only a moment to notice the dark storm clouds retreating to the east before Emma begins to shiver uncontrollably and buckles in his embrace.

“Swan?” He lowers her gently to the deck, his brow bent with concern. “Are you alright? Swan!” 

She gazes up at him with bleary eyes, and her face is white as a fresh sail as she pants, exhausted. “Hook?” she mumbles. Her lids grow heavy, and she faints dead away.

 

* * *

 

He can feel it – the surge of energy in the distance. He can feel it all over the Earth – the push-pull of magic – like a spider sitting atop a great web with his legs poised on the strands to sense the vibrations that register even from far, far away. Not every shift registers with him, of course, but this, oh there’s no way to miss _this_. Someone somewhere far from here has just done something significant, martialing a great amount of energy in the process, and he can sense the echoes of it, feel them like small waves generated by a remote tsunami.

He pauses his current task, setting the flasks in his hands down and turning his head to try to focus on the disturbance. It smells like light magic, he thinks. Fairies? His mouth twists in a distasteful sneer. He only knows of one other being powerful enough to generate light magic on that scale, and she’s indisposed.

Isn’t she?

Dismay lines his distinctive features as he turns to go consult his crystal. 

 

* * * 

 

The muted sound of another person moving about the room is the first thing to creep into Swan’s consciousness.

“Beggin’ your pardon, Cap’n, but I thought you might want some dinner. You’ve hardly had anything to eat the last few days,” Thomas murmurs. There’s the sound of a tray sliding onto the table.

At her shoulder, Hook gives a low rumble of assent.

“Any change, sir?”

Familiar, calloused fingers slide over the back of her hand, and a heavy sigh is the Captain’s only response.

Thomas’ footsteps retreat, and the cabin door latches gently behind him.

Swan feels the comforting rise and fall of the ship and notes the softness of the Captain’s pillow beneath her head. His bed. She’s in his bed. How did she get here? She gives a soft grunt and cracks an eye open. The last rays of the setting sun supplement the lamplight that glows around the cabin, and a wind rustles through an open pane above her head, the warm air wafting across her skin like a caress.

“Swan?” Hook’s voice rings with quiet disbelief. His hand folds around hers, and his blurry silhouette sits forward in the chair he’s pulled up next to the bed.

She moves to squeeze his fingers back only to find her palm resting atop something smooth and hard. It takes her a few moments to recognize her sand dollar, and she turns her head toward him with a quiet moan as the muscles in her neck protest what seems to be their first movement in a while. Forcing her eyes further open, she blinks away the cobwebs, her forehead wrinkling as his haggard appearance comes gradually into focus. He’s wearing only his shirt and trousers, gray circles line his eyes, his hair is a hand-raked mess, and he’s allowed his usual scruff to darken into a beard. “Hook?” she croaks. Her mouth feels impossibly dry, and she recoils and tries to swallow. “What happened to you?”

His brow twitches. “What do you mean?”

“You… look…” she searches for the right words, and her lips form a wry grin, “less dashing than usual.”

The smile that curves his mouth transforms him back into the man she knows. “You must still have some sleep in your eyes, darling,” he croons. “I’m fairly certain I’m as handsome as ever.”

 _He is. Bastard._ Swan chuffs and rolls her eyes, savoring his chuckle. She holds up the sand dollar and raises her brows in question.

His eyes grow oddly emotional, but he merely shrugs. “What can I say, love? A seafaring man doesn’t take superstitions lightly.”

She hums. “I thought you said I make my own luck.”

“Aye, that you do,” he acquiesces with an affectionate grin, “but no harm in stacking the deck in your favor.”

Swan smirks. “Pirate.” She motions for him to take it so she can push herself up to a sit with a groan, noting that she’s still in her shirt and trousers, her jerkin and gloves draped neatly over the back of a chair at the table and her hair down over her shoulder.

Hook sets the sand dollar out of the way and leaps to his feet. “Easy now.” He leans down and wraps her in a hug, gently hauling her upward in the bed. The warmth of his strong arms feels like sunshine after a rain, and her fingers curl into the wrinkled fabric of his shirt of their own accord. He pulls back much sooner than she wants, but the tenderness in his expression is enough to make her breath hitch, and her heart skips a beat as he gingerly reaches forward to loop a stray lock of her hair behind her ear. Then he colors and hastily redirects his attention to building a mound of pillows for her to lean back on. She collapses against them with a grateful sigh, and he clears his throat, turning toward his dinner tray and splashing a little wine into the goblet. “What do you remember?” he asks, setting it in her hand.

Swan contemplates his question as she drinks, the liquid heavenly on her parched tongue. The corner of her nose wrinkles as she swallows away the rank taste of prolonged sleep. “We were in the storm, and Thomas…” Her eyes narrow with uncertainty over the top of the glass. “Did I save him?”

Hook resumes his seat, scooting around a bit to face her. “You saved us all,” he corrects. “Swan, you have magic.”

She blinks up at him anxiously, taking a small degree of comfort from the encouragement in his eyes before looking down at the palm of her free hand as though she’s never seen it before. “I remember the wave,” she says haltingly, “And I thought… I thought we…” She bites her lip and tries to shake off the memory of that overwhelming fear. Her hand falls on her belly, and she heaves a sigh, giving a shake of her head. “And all I wanted was for the ship to be clear of the storm, and there was this…” her face scrunches up, “this _rush_ and… and then we were there.” She glances back at him for confirmation.

He nods. “That’s when you passed out.”

She hums, taking some more wine. “How long was I asleep?”

“Nearly three days.”

Her mouth falls open. “Three days?” she echoes. Her eyes flit down to his jawline, a crease forming on her forehead. “That explains your beard. What’s happened? Is the ship alright?”

“The ship is fine, Swan,” he assures her with a gentle grin. “Waterlogged and in a bit of disarray, but you got us out in one piece. We’ve had calm seas since.”

Her shoulders relax a fraction, but she cocks her head. “So why do you look as if you haven’t slept?”

Hook scratches behind his ear and looks away. “You aren’t the only one who’s allowed to worry.”

Understanding finally dawns, and her throat tightens, her brows peaking on her forehead. “You’ve been here with me... for three days?” She darts a glance at his chair.

He raises his weary eyes to hers, his face solemn. “Aye.” 

The intensity of his stare puts Swan’s heart in her throat, and she tears her gaze away from his, her lashes grazing her cheeks as she preoccupies herself with her hands. “Careful, Captain,” she says with a shaky smile. “Your men are going to start to think you have feelings for me.”

There’s a moment of silence. “And what if I do?” he asks quietly.

She looks back up, startled, and tries to process the raw honesty in the shadows that dance across his face.

Hook rises, gently taking her cup and setting it aside. She swallows hard and shifts over in the berth to make room as he seats himself on the edge of the mattress, gathering her hand in his and pausing, as though trying to decide what to say. “Do you remember that first night we danced?” he asks at length.

Swan folds her lips, emotions welling up in her chest, and manages a small nod.

His gaze grows distant. “That was the first time I’d danced in over a hundred years,” he admits. “The first time I’d felt like dancing since I lost Milah.” He gives a rueful shake of his head. “The truth is, I never thought I’d be capable of letting go of her, never believed I could find someone else...” He raises his eyes back up to hers, looking sad. “That is, until I met you.”

She’s barely breathing, the extremes of happiness, apprehension, and surprise simultaneously washing over her as she listens desperately for the lie. But it’s all truth. She can feel it coming off of him in waves. “Hook,” she murmurs weakly, “you don’t even know who I am.” She bites her lip. “Or _what_ I am.”

His crow’s feet crinkle in that way she adores. “Yes, I do,” he replies, the timbre of his words sending a shiver down her spine and his thumb drifting affectionately over her knuckles. “You’re Emma, Princess of Misthaven. Your powers are only further proof of that. There have long been rumors that Snow White’s daughter was born with magic.” He uses the curve of his hook to gently tip her chin upward so she meets his gaze. “But you could be an orphaned beggar without any powers for all I care. I know your heart, Swan,” he says, his blue eyes burning with conviction, “and I intend to win it.”

Swan blinks rapidly in the face of his stare, her emotions rising in her chest. “You…” she breathes, “you mean that.”

He nods.

The warmth of tears rushes upon her, and she looks away, her eyes falling to their joined hands and her brow wrinkling. A sniffle escapes her. “I didn’t think… I mean, I don’t…” She shakes her head again, the fingers of her free hand tracing the contours of his rings as she struggles to keep from dissolving into a blubbering mess. When she glances back up, her heart melts at the wounded uncertainty that hints on his features, and she reaches out to palm the angle of his jaw, her thumb alighting fondly on his newest scar and her mouth curving into a tremulous smile. “I don’t know if a princess is allowed to kiss a pirate.” 

Even without her memories, there’s no doubt that the way his face illuminates with awe is one of the most wonderful things she’s ever seen. “I think,” he murmurs, swallowing hard, “when it comes to this pirate, Your Highness can do as she bloody well pleases.”

Swan bursts into nervous laughter and nods, winding her fingers into the collar of his shirt and hauling him forward, her lashes falling closed and a happy tear sliding down her cheek as she presses her lips softly to his.*

Suddenly she feels so many things at once she can scarcely process it all. The glorious sensation of his mouth moving against hers becomes amplified by a rush that surges through her – the same kind of powerful, emotional rush she felt when she moved the Jolly. It overwhelms her senses, and then the memories come, cascading upon her like a tidal wave, her mind so instantly saturated by images and thoughts and feelings that she gasps and blanches, her face contorting into a pained mask.

“Swan?” Hook pulls back in alarm, his hand coming up to wrap around her shoulder. “What is it?”

The mental onslaught ends as abruptly as it started, and her eyes spring wide. She gapes at him in wonder, chest heaving. “I remember,” she whispers.

His jaw drops. “You remember?”

“I remember!” Her voice cracks somewhere between a hysterical laugh and a relieved sob.

He cups her cheek, glowing with excitement. “Emma,” he tries, searching her face.

“Yes.” She chuckles and nods vigorously. “Emma.”

He crows with triumph and pulls her to him for another kiss, slanting his mouth across hers and stealing her breath with abandon this time while she sniffles, her body suffused with pure joy. The enthusiastic press of his lips, the dive of his fingertips into her tangled tresses, the snake of his left arm around her waist – it’s as if he can’t get her close enough, and she mewls, completely content to let him possess her in whatever way he desires.

After what seems like an eternity (and not nearly long enough), they come up for air, their combined breaths hot and insistent. Emma sucks one kiss-swollen lip between her teeth, feeling ridiculously giddy at the satisfied hum that emanates from his chest as he brushes his nose against hers and moves in to kiss her again.

Someone pounds on the door. “Captain!”

They break apart and freeze, swapping a chagrined look as the knocking persists. Hook gives an impatient growl that makes Emma giggle before shooting an icy glare in the direction of the disturbance. He huffs. “Hold that thought,” he mutters, bumping his forehead softly against hers and stealing another quick kiss before he straightens, rotating to face the door and swiping his thumb at the corner of his mouth. “Smee?”

The door bangs open, and the first mate lunges in. “Did you see it?” he pants. He skids to a halt when his enormous eyes fall on them. “Milady!” His face brightens. “You’re awake!”

Emma smiles and gives a small nod. 

“Yes, she’s on the mend at last,” Hook concurs. “Now what are you talking about? What did you see?”

Smee seems to remember himself. “The—the…” Smee gestures nondescriptly behind him, “The wind. The light? Like a rainbow?” He looks back and forth between their blank expressions incredulously. “It looked like magic, sir. Went out in all directions from the Jolly.” He glances at Emma anxiously. “We thought perhaps Milady had something to do with it.”

 _Rainbow light._ Hook opens his mouth to protest, but Emma interjects, trying to keep her voice from wavering even while her heart starts to race. “It’s alright, Mr. Smee,” she says. “I… I think it was me. But I’m fine now.”

His shoulders relax. “Are you sure, ma’am?” he asks, sounding concerned. “Is there anything you need?”

She flashes an appreciative smile. “Not right now. But thank you.”

“Privacy tonight, Smee,” Hook orders. “The Lady has been through an ordeal. I’ll call if she requires anything.”

Smee nods. “Shall we continue on course?”

“Aye. Thank you.”

Smee gawks at the Captain’s expression of gratitude. “You’re—you’re welcome, sir. Ma’am,” he stammers, looking pleasantly confused as he slips out the door and pulls it shut behind him.

As soon as the latch clicks, Hook turns back toward her. “What the devil was he talking about, Swan?” 

“Rainbow light,” Emma murmurs, her gaze far away. “I’ve heard about something like that.” She raises her eyes to him nervously. “The dwarves say that’s what they saw when my father woke my mother with True Love’s Kiss.” 

Hook’s handsome face goes slack. “Bloody hell.” He stares at her, dumbfounded, and gathers her hand back up in his. “So this…? You…?” His voice threatens to crack, and he searches her with shining eyes. “Do you actually…?”

Emma breaks out in a watery smile and nods, leaning forward to bury herself back in his arms with a contented sigh. “I think so. I mean, you were right. I’ve never been in love,” she concedes, her voice muffled against his shoulder. “But this… I was so miserable thinking you’d never feel the same.” She smiles as he reaches up to smoothe his hand over her hair. “Plus, I guess it’s kind of hard to argue with a broken curse, huh?” she chuckles.

He rumbles against her. “What happened, Swan? Who cursed you?”

Emma chuffs and pulls back a little, looking up at him sheepishly. “I did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * illustration by @waiting-for-autumn (http://waiting-for-autumn.tumblr.com/post/166052243923/the-kiss-third-piece-for-pocket-anon-the-long)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand and one apologies again for being so late to post today. I know some of you may have been waiting up for this as you so kindly did for last week's update, and I am incredibly sorry that I couldn't get this out sooner. I'm working one of my 84-hour weeks right now, so real life has been busy, and I also decided to run through this chapter for the fiftieth time, which took forever because my brain is mush and apparently also very hard to satisfy today where words are concerned. But it's very late now, and I'm finally sliding this out there and carting myself off to bed. I hope you lovely people enjoy. Thanks, as always, for your generous support.
> 
> ADDENDUM: Special thanks to @kmomof4 for inspiring a little extra humor that got thrown into this chapter after the original posting. I’m terrible, guys - I tweak my chapters after they post all the time. But trust me, IT’S BETTER NOW.

Hook stares. “Wait. What?”

“It was me,” she repeats.

“You cursed… yourself?”

“It’s a long story.” Emma scoots forward, and he moves off the bed to allow her to swing her legs over the side. She winces, her bones and muscles creaking and stretching with dissuse. “It can wait a minute though. I need to see Alec.” 

Hook tenses, a shadow of grief crossing over his face, and Emma picks up on his sudden shift in mood instantly. Dread fills her wide eyes. “What is it?”

“He’s taken a turn for the worse,” Hook says quietly. “The wound looks terrible, and he’s been feverish for a day. I told him yesterday that the leg is too far gone, but he begged to wait until we reach port to see what the surgeon thinks.” He shakes his head, his features grim. “Roberts says he started having difficulty breathing this afternoon. I don’t know if he’ll last the night.”

Emma turns ashen before she swallows hard, her jaw set with determination. “Then there’s no time.” She grabs his hand, and white smoke engulfs them once more, this time transporting them to the crew quarters. Her legs nearly give way as it clears, her feet landing on the floor for the first time in days.

“Whoa!” Hook throws his arms around her before she can sink to the floor and guides her onto the bench next to Alec’s berth. “Steady, love.”

She clings to him a moment and rewards him with a grateful smile before turning her attention to their dying friend. 

Alec looks much worse than he did when Hook last looked in on him earlier this morning – he’s pale and damp with sweat, his breathing is labored, and he appears a little delirious, his forehead wrinkling and his eyes slightly glazed over as he blinks up at them in confusion. “Milady?” he wheezes.

Emma reaches forward and layers one of her hands over his. “Yes, I’m here,” she answers with a strained smile. “It’s going to be alright. Do you trust me?”

The way the muscles in his neck tense with every breath makes it difficult to discern his nod, but he grunts. “Y-yes.”

“Good.” She positions her free hand a few inches over his heart, and the men watch her bow her head as though drawing on something from deep within. Brilliant light suddenly bursts forth from the center of her palm. Alec’s eyes grow huge, and he whimpers as the beam widens into concentric golden rings that shimmer and pulse and appear to absorb into his chest. His whole body shudders, but despite a few initial gasps and gulps, his breathing slowly eases. The muscles in Emma’s face twist tighter still, her hand now quaking with effort as she gradually pulls the light down his torso to give his leg the same treatment. A few long moments later, the magic vanishes and she slumps forward, visibly spent. 

Hook drops onto the seat next to her and bears her up, draping his arms around her shoulders. “I’ve got you.” He cradles her to his chest and turns his head to watch, amazed, as Alec pushes himself up to a sitting position with clear eyes and a rosy undertone to his skin that hasn’t been there in weeks. “Alright, mate?”

The young man rubs a hand across his breastbone in awe and leans forward to throw off his blanket and untie the bandage. His jaw drops when the linen falls away to reveal his leg completely healed without so much as a scar to hint at the original injury. “Bloody hell!” He gapes at Emma. “I didn’t know you could do that!”

Emma chuffs with a tired smile. “Neither did I until a few minutes ago.”

Hook gives her shoulders a squeeze. “Come, love. Perhaps some food and more rest are in order.” He tries to help her to her feet, but her legs remain unsure, and at her first wobble, he patiently bends and hoists her into his arms.

“Go tell Smee to change our heading. We resume course for Misthaven now,“ he informs Alec. "Roberts can help you find a spare pair of trousers. I expect you back on duty tomorrow.”

The young man nods eagerly. “Yessir. And thank you, milady,” he tells Emma, his voice heavy with emotion. “This is a debt I can never repay.”

Emma’s tired eyes twinkle as she winds her arms around the Captain’s neck. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

Hook gives his crewman a solemn smile and carries her out the door.

Though it’s a little awkward toting Emma down the narrow corridor, he savors the sensation of having her arms wrapped around his neck and the warmth of her body nestled against him. She’s a gift from the gods, this woman, and he simply can’t reconcile the inequity of the fact that she's _his_. _Precious cargo._ That’s what he’d once called her. Hook smiles wryly as he bears her back to his quarters. If only he’d known the truth of it then.

Emma lets out a sigh when he deposits her back upon his berth, her fingertips grazing his neck as they pull away. He shivers, sorely tempted for a moment to follow her into the bed and ravage her with kisses, but as much as he wants to realize the fantasies that have kept him company the last few weeks, one look at her weary expression reminds him that this is not an ideal time for either of them to address that aspect of their relationship. And there are more pressing matters.

He props her back up on the pillows and fetches her more wine and his dinner plate. “Are you alright?”

She fixes him with another thankful smile and nods, raising the drink to her lips. “I’m fine. Healing just takes a lot out of me.”

“You’ve done it before?” He resumes his position on the edge of the bed.

Emma hums. “Only a few times. Not many people know I can, and we try to reserve it for times of urgent need.” She sighs and reaches for a piece of hard tack. “I’m just glad I remembered that I could do it before it was too late.”

Hook leans forward and kisses her forehead. “As am I.” He grins, helping himself to some of the food as well. “Now. If you feel up to it, tell me your story.”

Emma nibbles while she considers how to begin. “I was kidnapped in January, a few weeks after the winter solstice,” she says finally. She hesitates and eyes him nervously. “By the Dark One.”

 _The Crocodile. Bloody hell._ Anger darkens his face, and he nearly forgets to swallow the food in his mouth. “What?”

She cringes the tiniest bit at the hardness of his tone. “There’s… there’s a dagger. His power is tied to it.”

Hook nods gravely. “Aye. I’ve heard of it,” he replies. “They say it’s the only thing that can kill him.”

Emma studies his face thoughtfully. “Yes, well, what’s less well-known is that it was once part of a larger blade.” She wets her lips. “The sword, Excalibur.”

“The King’s Steel?” He frowns.

She bobs her head again, absently finishing the rest of her biscuit. “Excalibur was forged to cut immortal ties. Reuniting the dagger with the rest of the sword – making it whole again – restores its power to kill immortal beings.”

His eyes widen. “Like the Dark One.”

“Y-yes,” she acquiesces slowly. “But also the fairies.” She sighs. “The Dark Ones have been at odds with the fairies for millennia. This Dark One wants to use the sword to wipe them out.”

His eyes narrow in confusion. “But what do _you_ have to do with any of this?” 

Emma snorts. “He needed my help.” She takes another sip and offers him what remains of the wine. “Only one of the rightful rulers of a kingdom can pull Excalibur from its stone,” she explains. “And the only way to re-forge the blade is with a Promethean flame."

"A what?"

"A fire lit from the last spark of the fire Prometheus stole from the gods. The Dark One has the spark, but only someone with light magic can ignite the flame and use it.”

“So you suited his purposes perfectly.” Hook scowls, draining the glass and setting it aside.

She hums the affirmative. “He ambushed me when I was out riding – took me right off my horse, I think. I woke up a prisoner in his castle. He treated me well enough.” She arcs an eyebrow wryly. “You know, except for the part where he threatened to hurt my parents if I didn’t help him.” A glance at Hook causes her to slide her hand into his as though she can see the way his blood is threatening to boil, and she continues hastily. “Anyway, getting Excalibur was quick work,” she says, clearing her throat, “and I needed more time to come up with a plan, so I pretended to have trouble lighting the flame.” Hook smirks, slightly consoled, and she gives him a half-hearted grin. “There wasn’t much to work with, but he did have a potion for a memory curse brewing at the time. I waited until it was ready before I lit the flame, and when he forced me to reforge the sword, I magicked it somewhere he’d never find it and then took the potion to wipe my memory so I wouldn't be able to tell him where it was." She smiles sadly. "I didn't want to have anything else he'd threaten my parents' lives for."

Pride surges through Hook’s chest at the thought of Emma outwitting the Demon, and he impulsively leans forward and gathers in her his arms. “You’re bloody brilliant, Swan,” he says, planting a fierce kiss in her hair. “Amazing.”

Emma chuffs and hugs him back with a little shake of her head. “Yeah, well, let's not oversell it. I didn’t realize how powerful the memory curse was going to be,” she mumbles into his shoulder. “I thought I’d lose a few days or weeks, and instead I lost everything. I blacked out, and the next thing I remember is waking up in an alley in Vicarstown. I assume he sent me there, but I have no idea why.” She tenses suddenly and raises her head, her green eyes horrified. “Gods, that was almost three months ago. My parents must be worried sick.” She darts a look at the small mirror above his washstand, wiggling from his arms and moving to get out of bed yet again. 

He arches an eyebrow and stands. “What are you doing _now_?”

“Mirror magic,” she answers simply, letting him help her up and over to the corner. Her bare feet shuffle haphazardly across the floor. “I want to see them.”

Hook’s brow furrows at the idea of her doing even more magic when she’s still so tired, but he holds his tongue and watches curiously, hand still in hers, as she focuses on the glass and sucks in a deep breath. Her eyes fall closed, a wrinkle appearing between them, and suddenly the mirror begins to glow, spilling golden light across the dim cabin. Their reflection disappears, replaced by the image of a woman standing on a castle balcony. Her coifed dark hair is streaked with a touch of gray, and her classically beautiful features are despondent as she stares out over the forest below.

Emma looks up, her expression falling as she sees the familiar face. “Mother…” she murmurs sadly, reaching out to lay her fingertips on the glass.

They continue to watch as a handsome, middle-aged man with a fine tunic and a weary countenance suddenly appears at the woman’s side and wraps his arm around her shoulders. She leans her head against him, and he presses a grieved kiss to her temple.

“Papa.” The image of the King and Queen vanish from the mirror, and Emma bites her lip and whirls, looking distraught. Her eyes lock on to the windows, and she peers out at the night sky with a distant gaze, her lips moving as though in silent prayer. 

“Emma?”

She blinks out of her reverie. “When word gets out that I’ve returned home with my memories restored, my family and I will be in danger all over again,” she whispers.

He sighs and tugs on her hand, pulling her gently into his arms. “Tell me what you need.” 

“You don’t have to come with me.” She shakes her head, looking forlorn as her hands fiddle with the charms that hang around his neck.

He snorts. “Like bloody hell I don’t.” He tips her chin upward and stares into her eyes resolutely. “I love you, Swan, and you’ve got a head full of memories now to prove it.” He smiles as her sad expression gives way to an awed flush. “I go where you go, and this ship is at your disposal. As is the rest of the crew, I suspect,” he adds with a chuckle.

Emma gives a quiet laugh and tips her head coquettishly. “I thought you were through serving a monarch.”

He rolls his eyes. “I serve at the pleasure of the Lady Swan,” he says, grinning and touching his lips to her forehead. “I won’t hold it against you that you turned out to be a stuffy royal.”

“Hmph.” Her dimples flash despite the anxiety that remains in her smile, and she closes the distance between them to press a soft, lingering kiss to his mouth. “Thank you,” she whispers, lashes still lowered and fingers reaching up to stroke the side of his face. She exhales and tips her head forward against his. “I think we need help.”

“From whom?”

Emma cranes her neck to look away. “From her.”

Killian follows her line of sight out the window, squinting for a moment until he spies the tiny pinpoint of sapphire-colored light speeding over the darkened waves toward them. His eyes widen as it sweeps in through the open window and swells into a giant glowing ball, the light then dissipating to leave a human-sized fairy in their midst. 

Emma hobbles over to her eagerly. “Blue!”

The fairy, a slight woman with big chocolate eyes, matching ringlets, iridescent wings, and a fancifully wide skirt that looks a bit like a jellyfish embraces her with a happy cry. “Emma! At last!” She hugs the Princess and then holds her out at arm’s length. “I was so relieved to hear your call just now! We’ve been worried!”

Emma nods regretfully. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“What are you doing all the way out here?” Blue demands. She raises a disapproving eyebrow at Hook. “And in the company of pirates?”

Hook bristles.

Emma colors. “Blue, this is Captain Killian Jones.”

“Captain Hook,” Blue supplies flatly. “I know.”

At the fairy’s frown, Emma returns to Hook’s side and makes a show of taking his hand and clinging to his arm.

Astonishment transforms Blue’s pretty features, her mouth growing round. “Oh.” She cocks her head, as if reading the energy between the two of them, and blinks. “Really? True Love?” One eye pinches as she peers more closely at Hook, examining him up and down, and he does his best to remain stoic, his jaw clenched in defiance despite the unsettling sensation that she’s somehow weighing and measuring his very soul. At last the delicate lines on her brow fade and she gives an appeased hum. “That’s going to be an interesting conversation with your parents.”

Emma squeezes his hand. “Yeah, well, that’s the least of our problems,” she says dryly. “Blue, I was taken by the Dark One.”

The fairy’s attention snaps back to her. “What?” She watches Hook help Emma into a seat at the table. “Tell me everything.”

Emma proceeds to relay her tale again, only pausing from time to time to answer pointed questions from her friend. Blue's lips disappear into a tight line at the first mention of Excalibur, and her eyes glimmer dangerously when she learns that she and her kind are the targets of the Dark One’s latest plot. The only break in her quiet outrage is a small smile when Emma details how she spirited the sword away and sacrificed her memories. “I’m proud of you, Emma,” she comments. “You’ve done well.”

Emma grins weakly. “But what do I do now? Can you remove the memory again?”

The fairy shakes her head apologetically. “Unfortunately, no. All memory curses stem from dark magic. I cannot create one.”

“Then we need a new plan,” Emma insists. “No one I love will be safe as long as I have what he wants.” 

Hook licks his lips. “Perhaps the best strategy is to attack first then.” He leans forward on the table beside her. “You have a weapon that can kill immortal beings, love. Just end the bloody Crocodile once and for all.”

Emma’s face falls. “I... I know you’ve spent most of your life looking for a way to get your revenge against him,” she acknowledges quietly, shooting a nervous look at Blue before fixing him with a pained expression, “But I can’t do that.”

His brow crinkles with disbelief. “Why not?”

“Because murder and revenge change you,” Blue answers firmly. “They turn your heart dark. If you love her, then don’t ask that of her.”

The thought of corrupting Emma causes Hook’s stomach to feel leaden, and guilt rears its head as he remembers how upset she’d been to kill the naval captain, even in his defense. He glances at her, chastised, and swallows, his eyes falling to the table. “Then let me do it.” He turns and offers the fairy a sad half-smile. “I’m already a villain. My heart’s as dark as they come. Let me pay the price for killing the Dark One. Then Emma and her family will be safe.”

“No!” Emma protests, panic creeping into her voice.

To his surprise, Blue eyes him thoughtfully. “It’s true that your course has been far from straight, Captain,” she says at last, her features stern, “and there has been immense suffering in your wake.” Her frown lessens. “But there’s always hope for a person capable of True Love. Your heart may not be as dark as you think, especially if you’re willing to let Emma’s light guide you now.” She lifts an eyebrow in challenge. “Will you do that? Try to be the man she needs you to be?”

A lump rises in Hook’s throat, and there’s a great weight on his chest as he shares a look with Emma, her eyes emotional and slightly embarrassed. He nods and reaches for her hand.

The fairy smiles. “Good.” 

Emma blinks the moisture out of her eyes and sniffles loudly, clearing her throat. “Blue, can't I just give the sword to you?”

Blue shakes her head again. “That won’t keep the Dark One from coming after you, Emma. It’ll only leave you without the weapon you may need to defend yourself against him when he does.” She lays a hand on her shoulder with a kind smile. “Have hope. You’ve already bested him once, and you have some of the strongest light magic I have seen in a long time. Am I right in thinking you did something big several days ago?”

Emma exchanges a stunned glance with Hook. “You know about that?”

Blue looks pleased to be correct. “I felt it. All the fairies did. What happened?”

“She transported the ship out of a hurricane,” Hook says, gazing at Emma with admiration. “Saved us all by moving us bloody near 90 nautical miles and out of harm’s way.”

Blue’s eyes grow huge. “Truly?” As Hook sounds the affirmative, she looks to Emma and beams. “You’ve always had a knack for teleporting, but I’m still impressed you were able to send anything that distance, much less a ship this size, Emma. Little wonder we sensed it, even from so far away. It gave me hope we’d find you. We knew you’d gone across the sea.”

“How?” Hook asks.

Blue smiles patiently. “Her parents summoned me a few days after she’d gone missing. I used a locator charm on one of her hair combs. We tracked it for a day but lost it when it went into the ocean. We had to assume she’d gone over the water. Your parents refused to entertain any other possibilities.” 

“That must be when they sent communiqués to their allies,” Hook tells Emma. “Like the one I found on that ship from Glowerhaven.”

Emma traces his knuckle with her thumb, the corner of her mouth twitching before she sighs again. “Well, we have to think of _something_.”

The fairy nods with a bounce of her brunette curls. “We will do everything we can,” she promises. With a wave of her wand, she takes to the air and winks back down to her normal size. “I’ll alert your parents, tell them what’s happened.”

Emma turns to Hook. “How long until we get there?” she asks him anxiously.

He inclines his head. “From here with strong winds? Perhaps a week.”

“Then we’ll see you then,” Blue says, swooping toward them in a graceful arc in order to float in front of Emma’s nose, her dragonfly-like wings flapping lazily back and forth.

“Tell my parents I love them,” Emma implores.

“I will. Be safe, Princess.” Blue darts over to give Hook one last tiny, but no-less penetrating stare. “Look after the one you love, Captain.”

Hook nods soberly, and they watch as the fairy loops out the window and off into the night.

 

* * * 

 

Emma sighs with deep, penetrating weariness as Blue’s departure makes the cabin grow dimmer once more.

Still standing beside her chair, Hook hums and tugs on her hand. “Come, love. Back to bed. I daresay you’ve done enough for one evening.”

She has no words to contradict him as he helps her up and back over to the berth. “And what about you?” she asks, settling back against the pillows with a little groan. “You haven’t slept well in three days.”

He chuckles. “Aye. Now that I know you’re alright, I think I could do with a night’s rest.”

The thought of him leaving her alone in his cabin in order to go sling up a hammock somewhere else makes her frown, and Emma bites her lip, trying to ignore the fact that her parents would most certainly _not_ approve of what she wants to say. “Would you…” She swallows. “Would you stay here with me? To sleep,” she adds, feeling the warmth creep into her face.

Hook ducks his head and scratches behind his ear, trying to wipe the foolish smile off his face. “I suppose I could manage that,” he says, his tone causing her heart to skip a beat. Despite the signs of fatigue around them, his blue eyes gleam with mischief when he glances back up. “I serve at the pleasure of the Lady Swan.”

She blushes even harder and rolls her eyes, scooting over to turn down the lamp above the bed while he pads away to address the others. The room slips into deeper darkness as the flames are extinguished one by one, leaving his figure outlined only in dim moonlight. 

Hook turns back toward the bed, and Emma watches, intrigued, as he absently reaches for his left arm, jerking the sleeve up to fully expose his brace and reaching for the straps that hold it in place. He catches her looking, and his hand pauses, his step slowing. Something flickers across his face, and Emma blinks as she realizes he actually looks self-conscious.

She offers him a gentle smile. “Need some help?” she asks softly, moving to kneel on the edge of the berth and beckoning with her hand. “I’m rather good with fastenings.”

Hook folds his lips together, and he hangs his head, hesitating a moment longer before coming toward her and gingerly offering her his left forearm. “It’s… It’s not the prettiest thing, love.”

Emma cradles the brace in one hand and follows his gestures to undo the two studded straps that secure it to his arm, holding her breath as she eases the leather shell off and sets it, hook and all, aside. Her fingers tentatively survey the contours of his stump and the long, shiny scar that runs across the puckered flesh, and she feels him tremble. “It’s part of you,” she murmurs. “That’s all I care about.” To make her point, she sets the arm on the curve of her hip and reaches for his neck to pull him in for a slow, quiet kiss, grinning at the sheen her gesture leaves in his eyes. “Come on.”

He smiles shyly and takes a second to hang the hook and brace from a little loop of leather tacked up behind the elaborately carved support that overhangs the foot of the bed. Then he’s back in her arms, crawling up on to the berth and plying her mouth with more grateful kisses as they lay down together beneath his blanket. His movements are quiet and unhurried – his hand gliding up her back, his lips pulling tenderly against hers – and while she sighs blissfully, it seems clear that his touch isn’t driven as much by a physical need for her right now as it is by an emotional one. There’s something revealing and intimate about this moment – strangely _more_ intimate than if they had simply fallen in bed together in a passionate frenzy, she imagines. This is _real_. This is the man without the persona, without the bravado, without the preening, without all the leather and steel - without the _Hook_ \- that normally separates him from the rest of the world. This is a bone-tired man with weaknesses and self-doubt – a man who wants to be with her not just for physical pleasure, but for the comfort of his soul.

Momentarily sated, he pulls back and drops another pair of kisses on the tip of her nose and then her forehead, his beard tickling her skin while his arm encourages her to snuggle into his side. Emma tucks her cheek into the hollow just below his shoulder and inhales deeply, savoring the smell and feel of being surrounded by him, and despite now being aware of the danger that awaits her at home, it occurs to her that, for the first time since before she was kidnapped, she feels really and truly safe. She strokes the space over his heart and lets her hand drift over his left arm, running her palm down his bicep until her thumb rests in the crook of his elbow. A smile finds her lips as he noses her hair and plants one last kiss on the top of her head. “Good night, Killian Jones.”

He rumbles against her, his voice thick. “Good night, my princess.”

In the warmth of his embrace, sleep claims her almost immediately, and the night passes in a dreamless blink of an eye.

Emma awakens the following morning to the indirect glow of the early sun filtering through the cabin and the crisp dawn air whistling through the still-open pane above their heads. The intense heat of the tropics is thankfully behind them, and the weather grows cooler as they sail further and further north. A particularly stiff breeze whooshes through, and even clothed and burrowed next to Hook - _Killian_ \- under the blanket, she can’t help the shiver that ripples across her skin.

He stirs beneath her, shifting groggily and pulling her closer, and she smiles to herself at the notion of being cuddled by a pirate of his intimidating reputation. Her eyes meander over his face to study his neutral features – the dark locks draped boyishly over his forehead, the normally expressive eyebrows, the thick lashes, the high cheekbones, the healing cut, and the soft lips framed by his beard.

_Formidable and extremely complicated, to be sure, but he’s got himself an honorable streak that would surprise you._

She chuffs inwardly as Maggie’s words resurface in her mind. The woman did have a talent for judging character. Emma reaches upward to deftly brush the hair away from his face. She loves him. She can’t deny it now. She’s spent her whole life hearing about True Love and dreaming of the day she would find a man who loves her the way her father loves her mother, and now she’s _found_ him. But how is she going to explain him to her parents? To the kingdom? She doesn’t know whether to bless or curse the Fates for throwing her together with Killian Jones, she thinks, dragging her fingers softly from his hairline to his temple and down along his jaw. Because, gods above, she doesn't know how to keep him, but she has no intention of letting him go.

Another cold gust needles her, and she winces again, flicking a glare in the direction of the window and raising her arm for a moment to magic it shut with a little twist of her hand. The vehemence of her command causes the window to close a little more forcefully than she intends, and the resulting thud jolts Killian awake, his arm reflexively tightening around her torso and his breath seizing in his chest while his sleepy eyes fly open.

“Wha—?”

“Sorry! Sorry.” Emma grimaces and lays her hand back on his chest soothingly. “That was me.” She watches with amusement as pleasant confusion settles over his features. "I closed the window,” she explains apologetically. “It was cold.”

He glances at the distance between her and the window and frowns. “How did you…” 

She raises her hand a few inches off his chest and waves it in a half-hearted flourish.

The lines disappear from his brow as recognition lights his face. “Ah. A little early morning magic, I see.”

Emma nods. “Sorry. It was lazy. I didn’t feel like getting up.”

A shiver of an entirely different nature zips down her back when Killian hums happily against her and brushes his lips across her crown. “I can sympathize,” he murmurs into her hair. “Did you sleep well?”

She chuckles, suddenly feeling a little shy, her fingers wandering up to trace his partly-exposed collarbone. “Mm-hmm. You?”

“Best night I’ve had in ages.” He moves a little, and Emma shimmies upward in the bed at his silent bidding so he can drop a kiss first on her forehead and then on her mouth.

His sweet little gesture of affection quickly morphs into something entirely different when she parts her lips for him and invites him to explore. Killian’s rumble of approval reverberates through his ribs, and he rolls up partway on his side and seals his mouth over hers hungrily, his tongue grazing her teeth and his breathing growing labored. She moans and does her best to keep up, suckling at his lower lip and sighing with gratification when he changes his angle and comes deeper still. Heat begins to coil in her belly as he thoroughly plunders her mouth, and suddenly all she wants to do is touch and be touched, her hands flying upward to stroke his neck on one side and bury her fingers in his hair on the other.

In her life as a royal, she’s only been kissed – _really_ kissed – by two men. One was the scruffy stable boy she used to flirt with back when she was too young to know better, the boy who snuck kisses from her when no one else was looking and who broke her heart when he and one of the scullery maids stole some of the silver dinner service and ran away together a year later. The other was a would-be suitor from the cadre that came seeking her hand last year – an arrogant prince who’d cornered her in the gardens and managed to plant a kiss on her before she returned the favor with a fist to his nose. But none of those kisses prepared her for this – for this passionate, desperate dance of lips and tongues that Killian is leading her on now, for the rough drag of his beard over her skin, for the way her body seems to vibrate and move of its own accord in response to him, for the way she _wants_. She feels on fire with this man, and all she wants to do is burn brighter. 

She tugs him down on top of her and swallows his low groan, feeling deliciously wanton as she enjoys being covered by the solid weight of him. Propriety and consequences be damned. The future can wait. This man is her True Love, and right now, she’s drowning in the temptation to do exactly what she likes with him.

He kisses his way across her cheek and over to her ear. “What would you have of me, Swan?” he whispers, nipping at her lobe and then ducking his head to sear kisses beneath her jaw.

She pants, thrashing restlessly beneath him while her hands navigate the planes of his back beneath his half-tucked shirt. “Everything.”

He pulls back, eyebrows twitching upward, and looks down upon her with heartbreaking adoration, reaching up to thumb her chin. “Are you sure? Have you ever…?”

“No.” She shakes her head and cups his face in her hands. “But I’m sure. Do I have your heart?”

Killian nods solemnly.

“Then I want the rest, too. Please,” she breathes. “I want you.” 

He lights with a brilliant smile and lunges forward again, drawing her lips into a slew of aggressive kisses that reduce her to the most primitive of thoughts. His nimble fingers make short work of the buttons on her shirt, the cotton falling open and the two of them wriggling to pull it free. It flutters unceremoniously to the boards, and he lays his hand on the swath of skin just above her hip, letting it drift over her belly as though memorizing every square inch before moving upward toward her ribs. 

His fingers reach the wide strip of linen she’s been using to bind her breasts in lieu of her corset, and he pauses. “May I?"

Any nervousness she feels at being revealed to a man for the first time is assuaged by the worshipful way he gazes at her, and she nods wordlessly, reaching for the flat knot at her side and tugging it loose. Emma bites her lip as Killian pulls the loops of fabric away, her heart pounding when at last they hit the floor next to her shirt.

He pauses to drink her in, lips parted in awe and eyes darkened as they rake down her bare skin. “Gods, you’re beautiful,” he mutters, leaning forward to capture her lips again. His hand finds her left breast, caressing and cupping the soft flesh reverently and tweaking her nipple to a rigid peak with his thumb. 

Emma whimpers softly into his mouth, gradually becoming aware of the hard outline of his arousal pressed between them, and when she arches in response to his continued ministrations, the momentary jolt of bliss she gets from grinding against him makes her gasp. _Oh._ She braces a foot on the mattress in order to lever her hips firmly into him again, and they groan in unison at the pressure.

“Swan,” he growls, “you’re not making it easy for a man to take his time.”

She rolls her hips upward again in reply and grins wickedly at the even more choked noise it pulls from him.

“Minx.” He grants her one more dizzying kiss before determinedly pulling away to refocus his attention on her breasts, exploring her curves with his mouth while sparks dance across her skin and the warmth between her legs grows more intense. 

Killian blindly looses the buttons on her trousers, and his hand slips delicately beneath the waistband, calluses brushing down over her mound in search of her most sensitive places. She gives a little gasp when his questing fingertips finally glide through her folds. “Bloody hell. You’re so wet,” he rasps appreciatively. He grazes that spot that makes her see stars, and his parted lips smile against her when she keens, his tongue still swirling across her pebbled skin and his warm breath doing little to tame her shivers. “Good?” he asks, amused. His fingers find her nub again and begin a slow, steady rhythm that causes waves of pleasure to wash over her and her heart rate to accelerate exponentially.

Emma moans in reply, her lower lip between her teeth. She’s touched herself before, of course, but those curious, hesitant experiences late at night in the privacy of her bedchamber pale in comparison to the sensations coursing through her from the perfect combination of friction and pressure he’s somehow generating now in the slick between her legs. 

Killian strokes her a few exquisite moments longer, and her breath begins to stutter uncontrollably. Then his hand slows. Emma whines with frustration.

“Steady, love,” he laughs quietly, the knowing smile more than obvious in his voice. “All good things.” He pushes off her a bit in order to slip further down her torso, the top of his dark head bobbing back and forth as he kisses a wandering line across her stomach, his mouth hot and his chains cold as they drag across her flesh. His hand withdraws from her trousers, fingertips folding over the waistband in question. Emma lifts her hips off the bed and helps him pull, the last of her clothing landing on the floor somewhere behind him with a muffled thump. A guttural moan escapes him as he appreciates her completely nude form, his hand wrapping around the flare of her hip bone and his neck craning downward to resume his path of kisses just below her navel.

Her fingers card anxiously through his hair as she watches him descend, scarcely able to believe he wants to do what he’s doing until his nose dips out of sight and he licks a gentle stripe along her opening. A little cry rips from Emma’s throat, and he groans at the taste of her.

“Bloody hell,” he breathes, pressing forward with his mouth again.

She writhes under his heavenly torment. “Killian…” she pants. “Oh, gods…” Her eyes clamp shut as he laps and suckles and pushes her back to the brink, every coherent thought gone from her mind except, _More… more… more_.

He closes his lips around her sex in the most intimate of kisses and hums, the vibration shooting straight to the base of her spine, and she gives a muffled shriek and clenches her fist in his hair to urge him on. Her sudden roughness causes him to grunt enthusiastically, and he redoubles his efforts, picking up the pace and tonguing her harder and faster until she’s finally overcome by blinding euphoria. 

Emma bucks against him, riding her orgasm out long and hard with a weak, wrecked sob. Never in her life has she ever even imagined anything close to this, this pure, unadulterated pleasure – warmth and love and hedonism all wrapped into one all-encompassing tidal wave that makes her happy to drown. And when at last she begins to come down, she falls back against the pillows, her heart thundering like an unforgiving drum and every inch of her buzzing pleasantly. Her chest heaves, and her legs quiver on either side of his shoulders, and Killian chuckles and swipes the moisture from his beard on the inside of her thigh before crawling back up.

He scatters a few more kisses across her skin as he goes, finally nipping playfully at the corner of her mouth, his eyes crinkled at the corners. “I daresay you enjoyed that, love.”

 _Smug bastard_. She chuckles, her dimples appearing as she savors her tang on his lips and the molten sensation of her afterglow. "Yes. Thank you, Captain Obvious."

Killian laughs richly at her retort, eyes dancing. He cups the side of her face and thumbs her cheek. “Ready for more?”

“Mmm.” She kisses him again. “I think so.” He pulls the chains from around his neck and deposits them on the shelf, and she helps him remove his shirt, thoroughly enamored with the sight of him stripped the waist even as she recalls what she’s heard about coupling from her handmaids. Her brow wrinkles. “Will it hurt?”

He hesitates, his expression turning somber. “It may at first,” he admits. “We don’t have to–”

“No.” She cradles his head in her hands. “No, I want this. I trust you.”

To her surprise, his eyes grow wet, the steel blue shimmering like the ocean. “I don’t deserve you,” he whispers, nosing her cheek and fusing his lips to hers with a sharp intake of air. 

They fall silent for a bit, the only sounds between them the whispers of skin on skin and the rustle of the sheets beneath them. His hand moves back down between her legs and begins to pleasure her once more, the swollen flesh still slippery and sensitive to his touch. Emma arches her back, wrapping her arms around his neck and smoothing her hands over the spot between his shoulder blades. She gasps when he probes her opening, and he presses slowly inward until it his finger is seated up to the ring, gently working back and forth and curling it against her walls.

“Alright?” he murmurs.

She nods eagerly, relishing the strange feel of him inside her.

She feels him introduce a second finger, his hand increasingly hesitant as he works to stretch her further and further, pausing at every hint of discomfort in order to let her adjust before proceeding again.

At last he seems satisfied. “Ready?”

“Please.” Emma blinks up at him ardently. 

He flashes her a smile and pulls away to remove his pants, sighing with relief when his rigid length is finally released from the constraints of the heavy leather. It bobs against her leg as he climbs back aboard, bracing himself on his forearms. “Hold tight, love.” 

He guides himself to her entrance and pushes forward in increments, groaning as she envelops him bit by bit until he’s buried to the hilt. “Oh, Swan…” He brushes a lock of hair from her forehead and gazes down at her, panting rapturously. “Emma…”

“I’m okay,” she hisses, despite the mild discomfort. He feels enormous, filling her and pressing against places she didn’t know she had, but the look on his face – helpless and wondering and so in love – makes her think she would do this a thousand times if it made him happy.

Killian snakes his hand back down between them and slips back to the apex of her thighs to rub her in firm circles, and she does her best focus on the work of his fingers, gradually relaxing as the pleasure seeps into her blood once more. 

He watches her expression intently, his face hopeful. “Better?” When she nods, he grins and kisses her hot and sweet. “I love you,” he murmurs, nuzzling her forehead. “Stay with me.”

He begins to move, his face becoming a mask of concentration as he works his way from shallow movements to deeper and deeper thrusts. He grunts and shifts above her to change his angle, and Emma shudders at the new pressure it creates low in her belly and the way he drags along her folds.

“There!” she tells him, her breath hitching in her throat. “There…” She tilts her hips up a bit, and Killian picks up speed, sweat glistening on his forehead and his eyes clenched shut as he begins to lose himself in her.

They chase their release together, her whines growing more and more strained, and when she finally falls again with a cry, he’s right behind her, stifling a roar in the side of her neck as he comes. His hips slow, their movement becoming more erratic with fatigue, until at last he moans and slumps against her.

Emma clutches him to her as they catch their breath and gently cards her fingers through the hair on the back of his head. “I love you,” she whispers.

Killian sighs, his arms tightening around her. “Heaven knows why,” he mutters.

She turns her head to place a kiss in his hair. “Because even after all these years, you’re still capable of good things.” Her fingers dance across his back.

He hums. “Good things,” he echoes soberly.

“You were a hero to all those slaves,” she offers.

Killian chuffs. “I’m hardly a hero.”

Emma frowns into the side of his head before she turns her eyes upward to search the ceiling. “Why did you do it?” she asks at last. “Agree to go after the slavers, I mean.”

He pushes himself up a little to look at her, brow creased in thought, and rolls to settle beside her, his right arm encircling her when she wraps herself around his side. “I wanted to be a better man for you, I suppose,” he answers, shifting them a bit atop the pillow before she lays her head on his chest.

She bites her lip at his confession, tipping her head forward and curling a hair closer. 

“And then…”

She looks up at him curiously. “Then?”

He’s quiet for a long moment, his thumb stroking her shoulder restlessly. “I told you that my father left me and my brother in the service of a ship’s captain,” he starts slowly. “What I didn’t tell you is that he _sold_ us to him and we spent the next six years as slaves.”

Emma’s breath catches, and she looks up at him wide-eyed.

Killian nods slowly. “We eventually escaped and were given positions in the navy, though the credit for that goes entirely to my brother, and I regret to say I was more burden than help to him back then.” He swallows thickly. “Anyway, being on that slave ship brought back memories I thought I’d purged a long time ago.” He blinks. “There was a boy there who was about the same age we were, and when I saw him, I…” He licks his lips and stares helplessly at beams above, eyes darting back and forth until at last his chest rises and falls with a heavy sigh. “Suffice it to say it felt good to free them. You were right, love – it was the right thing to do,” he says, his voice growing softer as he places a kiss on her temple.

Her hand slides up to lay over his heart. “I don’t know. Sounds to me like you earned a mark in the hero column,” she muses, enjoying the steady beat beneath her fingertips.

“I hope so.” He sounds unconvinced.

Emma reaches for his face and rubs his jaw affectionately. “Trust me.”

Killian's strong arm contracts around her, pulling her up until they’re nose-to-nose. His eyes shine with emotion, and his lashes flutter closed as he leans forward to capture her lips once more. “With my life.”*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * illustration by @giraffes-ride-swordfishes (http://giraffes-ride-swordfishes.tumblr.com/post/166306956823/after-dawn-by-worldangel-deviantart-for-the)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fic update at a decent hour? *gasp* Amazing how much more you can accomplish when you're not working 12 hours a day, isn't it? This chapter got a bit away from me in terms of length, but I hope you all like it. You guys have been amazing and said the most wonderful, effusive things about this story, and I really can't thank you enough for all your continuing support. Your words have been a gift. Enjoy!

When Emma finally emerges from below deck, refreshed and tidied up a bit, a great shout arises, with Smee roaring to the rest of the men, “Three cheers for the Lady! Hip-hip!”

“Hurray!”

“Hip-hip!

“Hurray!”

“Hip-hip!”

“Hurray!”

Killian sets his sextant on the sideboard and comes to meet her, beaming as the Princess, glowing with joy and embarrassment, is swarmed by his rough-and-tumble crew. They descend upon her to bestow hugs and kisses as if she were a beloved sister, and her exhilarated laughter can be heard in the ensuing commotion. 

“Alright, alright, mates,” he barks, waving his hook hand in feigned annoyance as Martin rounds out the pack by giving Emma a hug that lifts her boots right off the boards. “Give the Lady some space.”

Martin sets Emma back on her feet, and the men back up a little, the cheerful din dying down.

“We have news,” Killian announces. “Some of you are aware that our lovely Swan had lost all memories of her life prior to arriving in Vicarstown. But the curse that was responsible has been broken, and I’m in a position now to introduce you all to Her Royal Highness, Emma,” he turns his head and favors her with a proud smile, “Princess of Misthaven.”

A murmur ripples through the crowd, and the men gape, a few of them removing their headwear and giving Emma deferential bobs of their heads.

“The plan remains the same,” he continues, his tone taking on a stern edge, “We get her safely home. But there is some urgency to the matter now, so we must make haste. Am I understood?” He nods at the scattered calls of acknowledgement, and the tiniest of grins tugs at his mouth. “Extra drink tonight to celebrate the Princess’ recovery, but none for those I catch idling. Back to work!”

At his command, the crew disperses in good spirits, and Killian turns to see Emma’s knowing smirk. He smiles, puzzled. “What?”

“You’re in a good mood.”

He lifts her hand into the crook of his arm and leads her on a stroll astern. “Can you blame me?” he asks quietly in her ear.

Emma ducks her head as though to hide the flush in her cheeks and the way she bites her lip. “I guess not.” They arrive at the aft rail, and she releases his arm, turning to squint up at him in the sunlight. “Time for morning inspection?”

“Aye,” he agrees with a rueful grin.

“Want to spar this afternoon?”

Killian allows himself to grin like a cad, and he leans down so his breath warms her cheek. “With swords or below deck?” he teases. “Because my answer is yes.”

“Hmm.” She colors again, rolling her eyes even as she tries to suppress her smile. “Maybe I should magic your sword away in the middle of practice today.”

“That’s hardly fighting fair, darling.” 

“Yeah, well," she shrugs, and her green eyes glint impishly, “maybe there _is_ a little pirate in me.”

His mouth falls open in a thrilled smile, and he revels in the innuendo, whether she intends it or not. “If you’re trying to tempt me to drag you back to bed,” he mutters in her ear, “it’s working.” 

Emma chuckles. “To your post, Captain,” she says, gracefully slipping out of his reach. “I’ll see you at lunch.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He watches her walk away, admiring the subtle sway of her hips and trying not to focus on the memory of how he gripped those hips between his hand and stump as he knelt atop his berth and took her from behind scarcely an hour before. He groans inwardly. Gods, but he’s a lucky bastard.

Roberts approaches and follows his gaze. “She seems to have come through the storm well enough,” he remarks, throwing Killian an astute sideways glance.

Killian quickly puts his prurient thoughts aside and arcs an eyebrow at his quartermaster. “Say what you mean, Old Man.”

Roberts is no fool, and he chooses his words carefully. “It looks as though you two have reached a new understanding,” he observes. “She looks… very happy.”

Killian allows himself one more muted but self-satisfied smile as his eyes continue to follow the Princess across the deck. “Aye,” he answers softly.

“Well, forgive me for sayin’ it’s about bloody time.” Killian turns his head to fix him with an incredulous grin, and Roberts shrugs. “What? We aren’t blind.” He rubs the back of his head. “And she really is the Princess.”

“You doubted me?”

The quartermaster snorts. “Like I don’t know better.” He shuffles his feet a bit. “What becomes of you when we return ‘er to ‘er kingdom?”

Killian’s smile fades, and he looks away, his throat tightening. “That remains to be seen,” he admits at last.

Roberts hesitates, as though weighing the risk of asking another question. “Would you let ‘er go?”

“Back to work, Mr. Roberts,” Killian orders quietly. He rotates away to face the rail and directs his eyes blankly out over the water.

He can all but hear the other man's sigh of resignation. “Aye, sir.” The boards creak beneath his feet as he retreats.

Killian stares out over their wake, miles upon miles of traversed ocean stretching out behind them. They’ve come so far, he thinks somberly. The thought of sailing away from Emma, of saying goodbye and choosing the sea over a life with her, causes his stomach to clench. _Never._ But what will that mean for the crew? For the Jolly? His hand drifts absently over the painted yellow rail. This ship has been his home for over a century, his most constant and enduring companion, and as much a part of him as anything in his life. _A captain’s heart belongs to his ship_ , Liam had been fond of boasting.

The sound of Emma’s enthusiastic call causes Killian to look over his shoulder, and he turns partway round to watch her join a few of the men in trimming the sails. The corner of his mouth quirks fondly, and there’s a sad smile in his eyes as they flit about the ship. _Sorry, Old Girl_ , he thinks with a resigned sigh, his gaze returning to the Emma’s shining face. _My heart belongs to another now._

The morning passes swiftly, what with there being three days’ worth of issues – issues Smee had wisely determined could wait until the Captain was fully available – to deal with. Most have to do with the blessedly limited damage they sustained in the storm and the loss of supplies that had washed overboard. Thankfully, none of the concerns prove to be truly serious or difficult to address, though Killian is still vastly grateful at midday when the audible gurgle of Smee’s stomach causes his first mate to stuff the dog-eared list of items back into his pocket and decide the remaining entries can be dealt with later.

Sword fighting practice with Emma is enjoyable and satisfying as always. The Princess’ skills continue to progress nicely, and he allows her to try disarming him today, crowing triumphantly when she finally succeeds in loosening his grip and forcing his blade out of his hand. It clatters to the raised platform housing the mid-deck hatch.

“Very good!” he commends her, holding his arms up in mock surrender.

“Is this the part where you beg for mercy?” she teases, advancing on him with an irresistible smile on her lips and the tip of her cutlass aimed at his throat.

He grins and surprises her by stepping on the tip of his sword and flipping it over the edge of the platform. The grip lands back in his hand, and steel clangs again as he catches her blade effortlessly. “Pirates don’t beg.” Killian savors the breathless admiration on her face with a chuckle and pulls his cutlass back in order to assume another fighting stance. “But you’re welcome to keep trying. Again!”

 

* * *

 

As promised, they enjoy a night of celebration out on deck, with the crew milling about and Thomas handing out portions of the evening meal from a makeshift station he sets up on a couple large crates. When everyone is outfitted with food and grog, he leaves to fetch more water and rum for the second round of drink. He returns to find Emma using what remains of the near-empty water cask to mix a few more cups of grog for the men. 

She meets his stunned stare with a knowing smile as she hands a cup over to Roberts. “Hope you don’t mind me standing in for a minute,” she says cheerfully, holding the next cup out to him. “I do have some serving experience, you know.” 

Thomas sets the new cask and bottles he’s carrying down and accepts the cup with a little laugh. “Yes, mil—Your Highness.” He raises it to her and then sips, his eyes lighting with pleasant surprise.

Emma smirks. “Taste alright?”

He nods enthusiastically, drinking again and swishing the watered-down spirits around in his mouth. “For a princess, you make a pretty good pirate,” he comments shyly. “Never knew that day you asked to climb the mast how well you’d take to…” he waves his hand around the ship, “all of this.”

Emma chuckles, handing a cup to Martin and grinning as the carpenter accepts it with a comical little bow and moves off. “I have my parents to thank for that, I guess.”

He cocks his head quizzically and sits down next to her to open the new cask. “I thought you didn’t have much experience on ships.”

“I don’t.” She grins, pouring fresh rum into the now-empty grog pitcher and squeezing in the juice of two lime halves before passing it off to him and wiping her hands on a rag. “But my mother taught me to climb trees and throw knives and shoot with a bow when I was just a girl. After years on the run from the Evil Queen, she decided survival skills were kind of essential.”

"Oh." Thomas looks impressed. “Makes sense, I guess.” He begins cutting the rum with water. “And your father taught you to fight with a sword?”

Emma nods, looking nostalgic. “Well, he and my godfather, Lancelot. Lance brought me my first toy sword when I was three. Mother says the head groom was a little horrified when I started chasing imaginary dragons around the gardens with it, but Papa and Lance were so proud.”

Thomas shares her little laugh. His sets the cask aside and gives the pitcher a good swirl, falling quiet for a moment. “You must miss ‘em.”

Her smile turns a bit sad. “I do, but I’ll see them soon.” She studies him. “Do you have any family?”

The young man shakes his head. “Never knew my father, and my mother died a few years back. My older brother and I survived doing odd jobs at the docks until he was killed in an accident,” he reveals, looking blue. “Wasn’t long after that that I met the Cap’n and he offered me a position on Jolly.” He darts a glance around them at the other crewmen. “This is as close to a family as most of us have now.”

Emma feels a twinge in her chest, and she flashes him a heartfelt smile. “Well, thank you for letting me be part of your family for a little while,” she says gently.

Thomas blushes and rubs the back of his neck. “The debt’s still ours to pay, ma’am.”

When dinner is over and the music commences, Smee comes over to where Killian and Emma are seated against the gunwhale, his hat humbly in his hands and a hopeful grin on his face. “Captain? Permission to ask the Princess for a dance?”

Pure intrigue crosses Killian’s dark features as he peers up at his nervous first mate, but one glance at the sparkle in Emma’s eyes causes him to nod, an amused grin tugging at this mouth. “Granted.” 

Smee makes a slightly clumsy bow and extends his hand, the apples of his cheeks glowing red. “Your Highness?”

Emma flashes Killian a brilliant smile as she lays her fingers in Smee’s plump palm and climbs to her feet with a chuckle. “Of course.”

The crew roars at the sight of one of their own escorting the Princess to the center of the deck, and it emboldens a handful more to step forward. Emma laughs and shrieks with delight as Martin, Thomas, Alec, and a few others each take a turn, whirling her around the boards and then handing her off to the next man. At last there comes a rowdy cheer, and she finds herself being spun into a familiar pair of waiting arms as Killian, having left his heavy coat aside, finally claims the rest of the dance for himself. Roberts switches the tune on his shrill little pipe, and the crew begins to clap and chant:

 _The maiden, oh, the maiden, oh,_  
_The sailor loves the maiden, oh!_  
_So early in the morning,_  
_The sailor loves the maiden, oh!_  
_A maid that is young,_  
_A maid that is fair,_  
_A maid that is kind and pleasant, oh,_  
_So early in the morning,_  
_The sailor loves the maiden, oh!_ *

Killian reaches down and wraps his arm around her hips, his face jubilant in the lantern light as he lifts her off her feet and spins them around. Emma gasps in surprise, bracing her arm across the back of his shoulders and beaming down into his shining eyes. Her hero. Her sailor. Her love. 

He sets her down at the song’s end, and she wraps both arms around his neck to steady herself, her heart thrumming in her chest and her lips parting in awe as she realizes that, for the first time in all their nights on deck, he’s singing too, directing his smooth baritone down to her while he draws close and bumps his forehead affectionately into hers. 

“The sailor loves the maiden, oh!”

 

* * * 

 

It’s late in the evening by the time they slip below, the muffled sounds of the crew’s merrymaking still audible above their heads. Killian sets their lantern on the table as Emma presses the cabin door shut behind them and hangs up his coat. He comes up behind her and runs his hand down her arm, nuzzling the side of her face and placing a soft kiss on her cheek. “Tired, love?” 

He smiles at her throaty little chuckle. “Only a little.” She spins and lays her hands on his chest, and desire rolls into the pit of his belly when her lips find his. Her kiss is gentle at first, tender and slow, but she mewls when he emits a quiet growl and tugs her hips flush with his, her hands winding up and over his shoulders and her mouth opening wider to allow his questing tongue better access. 

His trousers grow tighter as the heat between them flares, and he pulls away a moment, panting, the tip of his nose drifting across her cheek. “Would you like to...”

“Yeah.”

An idiotic grin spreads across his face as she presses forward and kisses him again, and they stagger backward toward his berth in a progressively mad fumble. Her slender fingers work at the clasps of his waistcoat until she can slide her hands beneath the soft leather and push it free. Killian chuckles into her mouth at the hunger in her kisses and the efficiency of her movements as she strips him, a little groan tearing from his throat when she manages to undo his shirt buttons and her hands alight on his bare chest, her fingers smoothing upward through the soft dark hair atop his skin and skimming laterally along his collarbones until she shoves the fabric up off his shoulders. He struggles to detach his hook in time so he can finish shedding the shirt without tearing the cotton, opening his eyes long enough to toss the brace and hook haphazardly onto the shelf behind the bed with a clatter. His lips are still upturned and his voice gravelly as his shirt hits the floor and he reaches for her jerkin. “My turn.”

In a few minutes more, he has Emma naked and on his bed, and she barely has time to pull her hair down before he sheds his boots and trousers and chains and crawls up over her to resume his assault on her mouth while his fingers traverse the miles of creamy skin beneath them, caressing the globes of her breasts and then running south to skim her damp folds. Her breath catches at the latter, and he smiles and fingers her sex again. “So perfect.”

Her hands flail between them, tickling down across his stomach, but his involuntary laugh turns into a sharp intake of breath when she finds his swollen member and her fingertips drift down the shaft. Emma looks up at him with uncertainty. “Is this…?”

His hair hangs in his eyes as he nods vigorously, groaning again when her hand tentatively closes around him and begins to pump slowly. “Bloody hell,” he mumbles, closing his eyes and letting himself savor the tantalizing sensation that washes over him in waves. She begins to twist a little with every stroke, growing bolder and picking up speed, and he falters, rolling to one side and pulling her with him. They wiggle about on the narrow mattress until he’s under her, and he gazes up at her spellbound as she straddles his thighs and reaches for his erection again. Her continued attention makes Killian throw his head back against the pillow, chest heaving and eyelids heavy. Pleasure surges through his veins, building by the second, and he begins to sense that familiar tingle at the base of his spine. “Swan…” he grunts, face contorting with need. “Please…”

He hears her quiet giggle, and her hand slows. “I thought pirates didn’t beg.”

Her cheek causes a faint smile to ghost across his face while he does his best to retain his self-control. “I stand corrected,” he manages. “There’s not a man alive who wouldn’t be asking for mercy right now.” He gestures. “Come here.”

She obliges, rising up a little and shifting forward, and he brings his knees up and plants his feet, guiding her hips until she’s lowering herself onto him. Emma tosses her head and bites her lip, whimpering as he fills her, and she sinks down until she’s fully seated, her backside resting against the slope of his thighs.

The sight of her like this – bare, magnificent, and mounted, with her head thrown back, hair cascading over her shoulder and throat exposed in a graceful line – it’d be enough to make him weep if the sensation of her wet heat around him didn’t reduce Killian’s coherent thoughts to a mere memory. His hand and stump remain on her waist when she leans forward on his chest and begins rocking, grinding against him and whining as she seeks her climax. They establish a rhythm, with her pushing and him pulling in tandem, and her breathy little moans only serve to drive him closer and closer to the brink as she rides him with increasing fervor until at last she cries out and buries her face in his neck. Her entire body shudders, her muscles pulsing tight around him, and he finally lets go, his eyes clamped shut and his jaw slack as ecstasy overtakes him.

Emma rolls her hips against him a few more times before giving into exhaustion and falling still at last. Her body continues to tremble, and he smoothes her hair back and turns his head to press his lips to her forehead before rolling them back over. 

“Emma,” he murmurs, cupping her cheek in his hand and trailing soft kisses down across her face. “My Emma.”

She chuckles with breathless satisfaction.

He drifts back to her mouth, pulling at her lips with his. “For the record,” he says between kisses, “you’re welcome to make me beg like that anytime.”

Emma laughs beneath him. “Noted.”

 

* * * 

 

The rest of the week flies by like a wonderful dream, their usual daytime activities now punctuated with shared looks and a habit of easy, casual affection on deck – a hand around her hip, a touch on his arm, the diminishing space between them when they stand together with his hand on her back or her fingers around his hook.

She asks Killian to show her more of the stars, so they take the night watch one evening when the wind dies down and the seas are calm, bundling up together beneath a blanket on the top with the sails above them furled in order to give them a better view of the northern sky. He points out the constellations one by one, his voice growing melodious in her ear as he waxes poetic about the legends surrounding each cluster of stars until well past midnight. From there they turn to other topics, and under the cover of darkness they share warm, lazy kisses and stories of their past adventures until Emma doses off, snuggled in his arms and reclined against his chest. 

He watches her sleep as he keeps an eye out for anything unexpected ahead, reflecting with a private grin that the soft, even cadence of her breathing may have surpassed a tranquil ocean horizon as the greatest calming force in his life. A deep sigh escapes him as he listens to the hushed lap of the water and familiar groan of the timbers and the occasional squeak of a rusty hinge on the solitary lamp that hangs off the bow to light their way. It's perfection, this moment, he thinks. Up here on the mast with Emma in his arms, the stars overhead, and the ship below – it’s as though everything he needs is here in this one place. Peace. Home. Love. He wonders whether he’ll ever be afforded another moment as perfect as this. He’s long been used to uncertainty about his future, long appreciated the potential for each day to bring something new, but now that he’s found Emma, he finds himself feeling anxious about the unknowns that await them in Misthaven. How will he keep her safe from the Dark One? What will her parents think of their precious daughter taking up with a pirate? Will they try to drive him off, or worse, try to send him and his crew to the gallows? Out here on the ocean, there’s nothing to come between him and Emma, but when they reach land, aye, that’s a different tale. Killian sighs again and tightens his arm around her shoulders, touching a worried kiss to the top of her head. _One moment at a time_ , he thinks, focusing on her breathing and trying to silence the fears niggling at his heart. _One moment at a time._

The sky lightens over the next few hours, transforming from black to navy as the golden penumbra of the rising sun peeks over the lip of the visible world off to their right. As the light grows brighter, pinks and oranges bleed into the sky and cause the low clouds that hang just above their heads to glow with the same warm shades. 

Emma stirs, shifting against him groggily and shivering a little as she reaches up to rub her eyes. “What time is it?”

He buries his nose in her hair. “Just about six, I imagine,” he says with a little smile. “Cold?”

“I’m okay.” She tugs the blanket tighter around them. "Though I wouldn’t mind a warm little nap in your cabin this morning.”

He chuckles and hugs her tighter to him. “Agreed. Would you like to head down now? I can join you when Alec comes to take over as lookout in a bit,” he offers. His smile widens when she shakes her head.

“I’ll stay with you.”

Killian leans forward and kisses the cold shell of her ear. “Good.”

Her lashes flutter as she rolls a bit in his embrace and stares upward, and he admires the gleam of her green eyes in the morning light before following her dreamy gaze to the tip of the fore-mast as it skims the rosy clouds above their heads.

A glint in the distance draws his attention back to the sea, and he blinks, wondering if it’s a trick of the light until he sees the little flash again. 

Emma senses his distraction, and she cranes her neck back toward the horizon. “What?”

Killian squints, reluctantly releasing her so she can sit up and he can reach for his spyglass. “There’s something out there,” he says with a frown. “Something small.”

Emma shades her eyes as she peers into the glare of the rising sun. “Bird?”

He shakes his head, extending the barrel and raising the glass to get a better look. “No. It looks like it’s… floating.” His brow furrows as he considers the options and sees the sunlight reflect brilliantly off the little object again. “It looks like gold.” He hands the spyglass to Emma. “A magical talisman?”

Emma raises the eyepiece, looking perplexed. She’s silent for a long moment before she suddenly bursts out laughing.

Killian straightens. “What? What is it, love?”

She hands the spyglass back to him with a sly smile and flips her palm upward. In the distance, the object disappears in a poof and reappears in her hand, and Killian gapes down at a jeweled hair comb, the gold intricately molded to look like a spray of tiny flowers. 

Emma grins at him, her cheeks pink with amusement. “It’s the comb Blue enchanted to find me,” she says. She dries the water droplets that still dot the precious metal with her shirt sleeve. “It must have been in the ocean this whole time.”

“Huh.” Killian’s forehead wrinkles. “At that speed, it would have taken a year to find you in Vicarstown,” he points out wryly.

She chuckles and shrugs. “Admittedly, most people don’t disappear to the other side of the world.” She runs a thumb over the flowers affectionately. “I’m glad I got it back. It was a gift from the dwarves. Buttercups are my favorite.”

He nods, suddenly feeling another pang of melancholy at this reminder of her impending return to her other life. He bows his head and forces a smile. “It’s lovely, Swan.”

“Mm.” Emma tucks the comb into her jerkin and snuggles close to him again with a contented sigh, her eyes returning to the multicolored sky and the radiance of the rising sun. “I could stay here forever,” she hums.

The warmth of a tear presses its way to the corner of his eye, and he turns his head to plant a fierce kiss on her cheek, closing his eyes against the ugly fears begin to claw at his heart once again.

She rubs the angle of his jaw without taking her gaze off the light dancing on the ocean. “Have you ever done this before?” she asks. “Watched the sunrise up here, I mean.”

He thinks, frowning as the answer occurs to him. “I haven’t.”

“Ever?” She chuckles incredulously. “In over a hundred years?” She fixes him with a curious look. “Why not?”

“Well,” he shifts, tightening his arm around her torso, “Milah never cared for heights. And since then, there’s been no one to share the stars with.” A sad little smile twitches at the side of his mouth. “I might never have done this, had it not been for you.”

Emma lays her hand on his chest and closes the distance between them for a slow, ardent kiss, her cold lips somehow managing to warm something deep within him. The corners of her eyes crinkle when she pulls back. “Well, I’m glad we did,” she murmurs.

“As am I.” Killian looks down and reaches for her other hand, lacing his fingers between hers. “But it’s not watching the sunrise that’s special, you know,” he adds quietly, leaning his forehead against hers. “It’s having you here with me.”

Moisture gathers on her lashes as she blinks rapidly up at him, his own happiness reflected in her huge eyes, and she seems at a loss to do anything but press forward and draw him into another excruciatingly gentle kiss. Their lips are unrushed as they move together, every shared breath deliberate and saturated with emotion and promise, and he hears her sniffle just as a solitary tear leaves a cold trail down his cheek.

She’s changed everything for him, he realizes. It doesn’t matter what awaits them in Misthaven. He’d abandoned the hope of finding a happy ending long ago, but he understands now that he was wrong. It’s _here_. It’s _her_. And now that he’s tasted heaven, he’ll walk through hell if that’s what it takes to keep it.

 

* * * 

 

_Well, isn’t this interesting?_

The Dark One stares with fascination at the image of the pirate kissing the Princess that fills his crystal ball, and his blackened heart swims with a myriad of emotions – ages-old bitterness, hate, disgust, curiosity, and even perverse amusement at the idea that the he’s about to have the opportunity to get Excalibur back _and_ kill the arrogant bastard, Hook, once and for all.

He supposes he couldn’t have planned it any better, really.

With a wave of his hand, the crystal goes blank, and he rises and heads for his spinning wheel. He always does his best plotting while at the wheel, and between planning a welcome home of his own for the Princess, a suitably painful execution for the pirate, and the assassinations of a veritable rainbow of fairies, there’s much to think over.

 

* * * 

 

“Land, ho!” Alec’s voice booms triumphantly overhead.

His call brings Emma and Killian’s latest sparring session to a halt, with the pair of them whirling to look fore. Killian stows his cutlass and reaches for his spyglass, waiting until Emma’s hands are free to hand it over with an encouraging smile. “Go on, Swan. Set your sights upon home.”

She grins weakly and makes haste for the nearest shroud, shimmying up onto the rigging in a flash. 

Killian comes to stand below, fixing his eyes on the dark green shoreline in the distance. “How far is it to the castle?” he asks as she drops back down to the deck.

Emma clears her throat and hands back his glass. “Not far. Less than a day’s ride.”

He frowns at her pensive expression. “What’s wrong?”

“I just…” She gnaws on her lip, her eyes faraway. “Maybe you should stay here with the ship.”

“What?” He frowns sharply. “Why?”

Poorly-suppressed emotions cross her face, her eyelashes fluttering with uncertainty. “Just until we deal with the Dark One,” she explains, trying to sound firm. “I’ll send word when it’s done.”

Killian straightens, cocking his head back with indignation. “All due respect, darling, but that’s a load of bloody nonsense,” he grinds out. “I go where you go, and I’m sure as hell not letting you face the Demon alone.”

Her green eyes shimmer, and she shakes her head with increasing frustration. “It’s too dangerous. Even if he didn’t already hate you, it’d be dangerous.”

“Aye, he hates me,” Killian nods, “but you’re the one he’s coming after. And it _is_ dangerous. That’s why our best choice is to face it together.”

“I…” She turns away, her voice cracking.

He rolls his eyes and reaches out to rotate her back toward him. “Swan—”

“I can’t lose you!” she explodes. She glances around self-consciously at the surprised looks from a few nearby crewmen, her cheeks growing hot. Her gaze falls to the toes of her boots, and she sniffs. “I just… I can’t.”

Killian stares, his features softening as he reads the resolve in her face and wonders yet again what he’s done to deserve a woman like this. He shoots his men a look that sends them scuttling off before turning back to her and wrapping his hand reassuring around her arm. “Love, you don’t have to worry about me,” he replies gently. 

Emma blinks up at his soft grin, her wide eyes searching his face expectantly.

“One thing I’m good at,” he reminds her, stepping closer and tipping his head forward, “is surviving.” He grins as some of the anxiety fades from her expression and she manages a weak smile, and he closes the remaining inches between them and captures her lips with his.

She melts in his arms, her whine soft as her draws her up against his chest and continues to kiss her soundly, and when they finally pause for air, she blushes an even deeper shade of pink. “The men are watching.”

“Let them,” he rumbles, pressing forward to kiss her again.

The Jolly makes port at the seaside town of Jennings Harbor by midday, and though it takes the harbor master a few long minutes to recognize Emma standing at the gunwhale, excited calls suddenly erupt along the wharf.

“It’s the Princess!”

“The Princess has returned!”

The ship is moored and the boarding plank lowered, and Killian is the first off, stepping out on to the plank and turning to offer Emma his hand and a sober grin. “Welcome home, Swan.”

She squeezes his fingers gratefully as they descend, her face a mixture of relief and apprehension.

Having bustled out on to the dock, the harbor master doffs his hat and greets them with a low bow that belies the man’s portly frame. “Welcome home, Your Highness. Are you alright?” He eyes Killian and the crew beyond with a nervous smile.

Emma gives him a gracious nod. “I’m fine, Mr…?”

“Rosen, ma’am,” he supplies, setting his hat back atop his head.

“Mr. Rosen.” She smiles. “May I present Captain Killian Jones of the Jolly Roger?”

Rosen’s jowls pale a bit at confirmation of the ship’s identity. He bows his head hastily in Killian’s direction, his brown eyes widening at the sight of Killian’s hook. “S-sir.” He darts Emma a questioning glance. “Your Highness?”

“These men are my friends, and I owe them a debt,” she tells him firmly. “They’ve sailed halfway across the world to bring me home, and they’re to remain in port for the time being. Please look after them for me?”

He gulps at her request. “Y-yes, Princess.”

“We need a horse,” Killian tells him. “We ride for the castle immediately.”

Rosen gives a hasty bob of his head. “Of-of course. We’ll send word to the Royal Guard in town,” he says, looking to Emma for approval. 

News of the Princess’ return seems to spread across the town in mere minutes, and the guardsmen are quick to arrive even without a summons. They ride up in a party of four bearing silver armor and shields emblazoned with what Killian supposes is her parents’ crest.

“May we escort you, Your Highness?” the middle-aged captain asks, aiming a wary look at Killian as Emma selects one of their mares and swings expertly up into the saddle. 

She beckons Killian to climb up, and he happily follows, hoisting himself into place behind her, her back warm against his chest. It’s not lost on the Guard when she twists a little and gestures for him to take the reins for a moment, but if she notices the disapproving stares that come when he softly slips his arm around her waist to grab them, she pays them no mind. “That’s not necessary, Captain,” Emma replies with a little smile, tilting her head sideways and tugging her hair down to hurriedly plait it over one shoulder, “but you’re welcome if you can keep up.”

Killian smirks.

The guards swap bewildered looks before the captain signals gruffly for two of his three men to accompany them.

“My thanks for your help, Sirs.” Emma’s hand drifts over Killian’s as she reassumes the reins and catches his eye over her shoulder. “Ready?”

He flashes her a grin and nods. “Aye, love. Let’s go.”

 

* * * 

 

It feels a bit surreal to be home and flying along familiar forest roads with Killian at her back and her world so changed since she was last here, Emma thinks as she drives the horse west at an aggressive pace, hooves going _thubuddy_ , _thubuddy_ against the packed dirt. Killian’s hand is solid against her belly, and the way they rise and fall together with each extension of the mare’s legs makes her mind drift to more pleasurable activities – thoughts that make her skin tingle even as her stomach clenches with anxiety at her parent’s reaction to her choice to be with him. The guards’ reaction to seeing her physical ease with Killian was not subtle, and she bristles inwardly at the thought of having to endure the same looks from virtually everyone they encounter. As it does around the world, Killian’s reputation precedes him here. She remembers the stories she heard growing up in Court of a dashing and treacherous pirate with a hook for a hand, and though she now knows those tales mix truth and exaggeration and do not accurately portray the complicated man she loves, the problem of how to get her parents and the rest of the kingdom to see what she sees gnaws achingly at her.

They ride hard for several hours with the guardsmen in tow before electing to stop at a noisy brook to stretch and rest the horses for a short while.

Emma kneels by the water to scoop a few handfuls up to her mouth and then splatter some on her face, the ice cold splash the perfect relief for her sun-warmed skin. She catches Killian grinning at her as she dabs at her jaw with her forearm. “What?”

He shrugs. “Nothing, love. You just seem at home here.”

She gives a dry chuckle. “I had an early education when it comes to the forest. My mother knows this land better than even our most experienced huntsmen.” She spies a berry bush a dozen steps upstream and wanders over to pick a few of the small, dark fruits that hang heavy among the prickly leaves. The sweet and slightly tart taste is as well-known to her as her favorite songs and her most cherished childhood memories, and her fingers work absently, her restless thoughts continuing to simmer.

Killian’s footsteps approach from behind. “What’s wrong?”

She turns her head a bit as he draws near, a half-hearted dimple appearing at how unnecessarily close he pulls up next to her. “Hmm? Oh. Nothing.” Her voice is soft.

Killian’s hand brushes soothingly across the small of her back. “I've heard that one before.”

Emma glances at him, both annoyed and touched that he knows her so well. "How do you know?"

“Well, I hate to break it to you,” he informs her cheerfully, "but you’re something of an open book, Swan.”

His continued use of her nickname makes her smile, wistful as she is now for that time when she was a simple barmaid with no worries about royal obligations, political affairs, or some impending battle with the Dark One. She arcs an eyebrow at him and holds out a handful of berries. “Am I?”

“Mm-hmm.” His hum generates a pleasant shiver between her shoulder blades, and she watches him slip the fruit into his mouth and consider the taste. “Worried about introducing me to your parents?”

“I…” She rolls her eyes at how spot-on he is. “Maybe a little.”

He falls silent for a moment, though she can virtually hear the wheels in his head turning as he catches his hook on the bramble to hold a branch steady while his fingers pluck off a few more berries. “I can’t ask anyone to turn a blind eye to what I’ve done in the past, love,” he says soberly, “but I’ll do what it takes to be with you.”

“And what if my father just wants to have you thrown you in the lake?” she asks, her face glum.

Killian smiles. “Then I should be happy to oblige him. I’m an excellent swimmer, you know,” he quips, popping a few more berries into his mouth and brushing his hand on his shirt.

Emma chuckles in spite of herself. “Pirate.”

“Naturally.” He reaches up to finger a stray lock of hair over her ear, his expression turning solemn. “I’ll figure something out.” He thumbs at a bit of juice at the corner of her lips. “I always do.”

The sun is beginning to set as their destination finally rises into view, the golden rays shining from behind the looming stone towers and buttresses in a brilliant halo and shimmering across the waters of the surrounding lake. The royal palace looks at it always has, with a dozen spires of various heights reaching for the sky and flags waving proudly in the spring breeze, and despite all her uncertainties, the sight of it fills Emma with an enormous measure of relief. 

“That’s it!” she calls excitedly. “Home!” A elated laugh breaks from her chest, and she sniffles.

Killian’s arm hugs her closer, and he presses his face close to her ear. “Is that it? I was expecting something… grander.”

She giggles and elbows him lightly in the ribs.

A heavy gate flanked by stone guardhouses stands at the beginning of the great bridge that spans the divide between the mainland and the rocky island on which the castle is built. Emma’s homecoming causes more shouts to ring out as she’s immediately recognized by the soldiers standing watch, and there’s a great scramble to swing the wrought iron out of the way in time.

They thunder by, the loud clip of the horses’ hooves across the bridge’s gray pavers announcing their arrival, and mere moments later they pass through the even larger, more imposing gate leading to the castle grounds.

Emma draws them to a halt in the main courtyard, the mare blowing and knackering while Killian leaps off and takes the horse’s head to steady her.

“Princess!”

A familiar voice cuts through the air, and Emma’s face lights up. She jumps down and greets the white-haired head groom with a hug. “Marcus!” 

“Thank goodness you’ve returned! We’ve been so worried.” The uniformed gentleman holds her out at arm’s length, his brow wrinkling in confusion as he studies her rumpled clothes and appearance. “What on earth are you wearing?”

Emma rolls her eyes at the fastidious old man. “The appropriate clothes for a long voyage at sea,” she explains patiently. “It’s been quite a journey.”

He seems unconvinced. “Ah.” He glances fleetingly at her attire again, a distressed grimace hinting at the corner of his mouth. “Well, I shall have a bath set up in your chambers straight away.”

“Later,” she says with a shake of her head. “Where are my parents?”

“The King and Queen are in the Council Room, last I knew.”

“Good.” Emma turns and gives the weary guardsmen a quick smile. “Thank you for the escort,” she says, grabbing Killian’s hand and summoning her magic. “Excuse us.” 

Smoke surrounds them, and when it dissipates, they’re standing in the wide hallway just outside the heavy wooden doors to the chamber in question. Her heart races with anticipation and nervousness, and she pauses to take a deep breath, turning to Killian and squeezing his fingers. “Ready?” 

There’s matching anxiety in the brief way he licks his lips, but he puts on a smile. “After you, Swan.”

Emma studies his brave face and pulls him into an impulsive hug, cradling his jaw and kissing him deeply, unsure when she'll have the chance again. She looks back up at him, her thumb brushing across his scruff as she tries to memorize the weight of his arms around her. “I love you.”

The heart-wrenching devotion in his blue eyes is something else to savor. “And I you,” he murmurs. He gives her another peck. “Go on.”

She gives him one more shaky smile and lets him go, taking a massive door handle in each hand. “Mother? Papa?” she calls, “Are you here?” With a shove, the doors swing open.

 

* * *

 

Emma’s parents are indeed in the Council Room, and a bit of exited chaos ensues when she pushes her way in.

The King and Queen are standing on the far side of the room next to a great crackling fireplace that sits beyond an enormous rounded table. Their heads are bowed together as they confer about something, but Emma’s voice causes them to both look up in astonishment.

“Emma?”

“Emma!”

Their voices echo in the cavernous room, and Emma scurries across the polished stone floor, threading a neat path around the table and the wide red-and-gold trimmed stone pillars that bear up the ceiling. She grunts happily as her father catches her in his arms, and the trio locks into a tight embrace. Light from the hearth dances over the emotion that wells up on the King's face. He cups the back of Emma’s head while her mother bursts into relieved sobs, and the sight of the triumphant reunion causes Killian’s chest to swell as he wanders in and positions himself unobtrusively next to a nearby pillar.

“Thank the gods you’re alright!” Emma’s father mutters. “Are you alright?”

Emma nods against his chest and shudders, her voice muffled in his tunic. “I’m fine. I missed you.”

“We missed you too. We were so worried, honey,” the Queen sighs. “We were so happy when Blue told us she’d seen you.” She opens her eyes and spies Killian, her lips parting in surprise. “Oh! You brought a guest.” She pulls away from her husband and daughter and hurriedly dabs at her tears with the end of her sleeve.

The King looks up as well, creases forming on his forehead and his eyes narrowing in suspicion as he takes in Killian’s appearance. He straightens and squares his shoulders. “Hello.”

Emma steps away from her parents and motions toward him. “This, um, this is the man who brought me home,” she explains, sounding nervous. “Captain Killian Jones.” 

Killian gives her a soft smile as takes her hand and lets her draw him forward. “Your Majesties,” he says, dipping into his best formal bow. “A pleasure.”

The King glances with a frown at the way their hands linger together for a second too long. “Captain.” He bobs his head stiffly, meeting Killian’s eye before allowing his stare to fall to the hook. “The Blue Fairy told us you were involved. Thank you for returning our daughter to us.”

“Yes, thank you,” Emma’s mother echoes more effusively. “We owe you a great debt.” She finishes composing herself with one last sniffle. “We will gladly compensate you for your efforts.”

Killian gives her a warm smile and bows again. “I’m sure my crew will appreciate it.”

There’s an awkward beat of silence.

“Um, where are they now?” the Queen asks politely.

“My ship is at Jennings Harbor. The men stay with her pending further orders.”

“Right.” The King clears his throat. “Well, we won’t keep you from them long. We can outfit you with your reward and have you on your way tomorrow morning.”

Killian and Emma share an uneasy look. “Actually, I was planning to stay close by,” he says carefully. “Emma may be home, but she’s still in danger of attack by the Dark One, as I’m sure the Fairy also told you.” His eyes flit back to Emma, and the corner of his lips tugs upward solemnly. “I don’t intend to leave her in a time of need.” _Or ever_ , he thinks. 

The Queen looks genuinely moved, but her husband shakes his head with a chuckle. “Well, that’s very noble of you,” he says with a smile that comes just short of genuine, “but we don't need you to stay.”

Killian tips his head back, surveying Emma’s father coolly. “It’s not open for debate, I’m afraid.”

The King blinks, his incredulous grin widening. “No. It’s not. We don’t need help from a pirate. We’ve already got a plan.”

“And what’s that?” 

“That’s none of your concern,” the King shoots back, his voice now bordering on testy.

Killian snorts. “The bloody hell it isn’t.” He feels Emma's fingers intertwine with his, and his thumb sweeps across her knuckles restlessly in reply.

The King looks affronted and the Queen curves a brow as they note this action with a mix of interest and alarm.

Emma layers her other hand over the back of his, and Killian glances up to see a silent plea for patience in her large eyes. He folds his lips, trying to suppress his look of irritation, and she turns to her parents. 

“What’s the plan?” she asks.

“Emma, are you two—”

“What’s the plan, Mother?”

“Squid ink.” All attention turns to the King, who impatiently pulls a small vial out of the chest pocket of his dark red velvet tunic. “It stops any magical creature in its tracks. We’ll use it to disable the Dark One and capture him.”

“It was Blue’s idea,” the Queen explains. “Our friend Ariel helped procure it."

“See?” the King says pointedly, glowering at Killian, “We’re perfectly capable of protecting our daughter.”

“Oh, are you now?”

They whirl in the direction of the open door, and Killian’s sword is out of its sheath at the first sound of that sinister, sing-song voice he knows all too well from his nightmares. _Bloody fucking hell._ The Queen gasps as a spritely man with a gold sheen to his leathery skin and a coat made of crocodile hide steps into view, and even though he’s across the room, they all back instinctively toward the fireplace.

“Shame that you’re the ones that need protecting,” he cackles, the light from the overhead chandelier glimmering off his unnatural complexion. He passes over the threshold, waving one hand in that peculiar, dramatic way of his, and the squid ink flies out of the King’s grasp and plummets to the hearth with the sound of smashing glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * _So Early in the Morning_ (a.k.a. _The Sailor's Loves_ ) is an real traditional sea shanty. You can read more about it and listen to the tune here (http://www.contemplator.com/sea/sloves.html), though I imagine Roberts' version to be much more upbeat. :)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy cow, guys, we made it to the (not quite) end! I have so many mixed emotions about finally getting to release this chapter - excitement at getting to finally share it, extreme relief because I spent the better part of this year bemoaning the fact that this fic was never going to get done (and if it did, it wasn't going to be pretty), and sadness that it's all nearly over now. But never fear - I've been promising an epilogue, and I intend to deliver. I just want to thank you all again (and again and again) for the incredible support and enthusiasm you guys have shown this story. Your generosity has been amazing. Love and hugs.

The air seizes in Killian’s lungs as invisible forces tear him from the ground and send him soaring backward. He slams into a pillar, the impact knocking his cutlass to the floor, and magical vines burst forth from the stone and bind him upright, the thick green branches wrapping around his torso and pinning his wrists while he screams in indignation. “No!”

His voice mixes with those of the King and the Queen as Emma’s parents are similarly flung backward and restrained against opposing pillars. 

“David!”

“Hang on!”

Emma spins back and forth in panic, her eyes darting between each of them before she turns her attention back to the Dark One, her face written with fear and outrage. “Let them go!”

“So sorry to interrupt your lovely little reunion,” he says, strolling in with a wily grin, “but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity, you see – your parents and your new beau in the same place!” He giggles menacingly and flicks his wrist, and Killian grits his teeth as vines snake around his neck and draw tight. “I mean, look at all the wonderful leverage!”

“He is _not_ her beau,” the King grunts, shooting Killian a cross look as he continues to struggle against his restraints.

The Dark One’s high-pitched laugh is filled with glee, and he flashes Emma an evil smirk, pressing the tips of his splayed fingers together. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I spoil the happy surprise?” 

Emma’s mouth falls open, and she shares a look with Killian and then meets her father’s disbelieving stare with a guilty expression. The King gapes, too dumbfounded to even continue thrashing.

The Crocodile chuckles and saunters over to Killian. “You.” He surveys him, his features tinged with venom. “What a fortunate coincidence, you and the Princess running into one another. Now I don’t have to hunt you down separately!” He affects a comical grimace. “And breaking her memory curse with True Love’s Kiss? You restored her usefulness _and_ delivered her back to me from the other side of the world.” He leans closer, his eyes shining dangerously. “I’d be grateful if I wasn’t so set on killing you.”

“How did I get there?” Emma demands, drawing his attention away. “To Vicarstown. Did you send me there?”

“Well, your mother’s birds didn’t carry you.” His lip curls snidely.

“Why?”

“Well, your heart is rather difficult to rip out, you know,” he says, “all that nasty light magic around it and whatnot. Besides, killing you when there was a chance you’d be useful again someday would have just been wasteful!” He shakes his head and wags a finger back and forth. “No… no, no, no. Better to just send you as far away from home as possible and condemn you to live as a penniless orphan, working in a brothel or a scullery somewhere. You finding your way back, well…” the Dark One shoots a disdainful look at Killian, whose face grows darker with every word, “that was unanticipated.” He steps back from her. “But no matter. It worked out rather well, don’t you think?” 

He wanders back over to Killian and makes a show of studying him with a sneer. “You’d best cooperate, you know,” he tells Emma over his shoulder. “The first time he lost a woman he loved, he became quite the villain.” He smiles wickedly. “Losing another might make him darker than me.”

Killian lashes out against his bonds in a fit of renewed rage. “You bloody son of a bitch…” he rasps. The pressure on his neck doubles, and his words end with a strangled noise.

“Now, now,” the Demon admonishes, motioning for the vines to squeeze tighter. “Such language around your Princess.”

“I know about Milah,” Emma barks, raising her hand for him to stop. “I know you killed her.”

“ _He_ killed her,” the Dark One bites out, “when he stole her from me.”

Killian sees confusion flicker across Emma’s face, and his heart sinks.

“Ah.” The Crocodile pauses, his eyebrows lifting delightedly. “That’s right. She was _my_ wife. I imagine he neglected to mention that.” He points a talon-like fingernail at Killian. “He helped her run away from me and our son, and it tore our family apart.” His eyes shrink into slits. “He brings nothing but ruin to the people who are foolish enough to care for him. Believe me, I’m doing you a favor.” He waves his hand, and huge black spots appear in Killian’s vision as his living noose draws even tighter.

“No!” comes Emma’s ragged scream. "Please!"

The vines relax a fraction, and Killian’s chest heaves as his world swims back into focus.

The Dark One whirls on her again, incredulous. “Really? A million skeletons in his closet, and you still want him?” He cocks his head inquisitively. “Why?”

Emma licks her lips, shooting a nervous glance at her parents. “I know he has a lot to answer for,” she says. Her eyes fall on Killian, and the emotion he sees there causes him to feel the sting of tears. “And I know he’s been angry for a long time. But he’s not the man he was. And he’s not beyond forgiveness. I’ve seen him be brave and generous and self-sacrificing. He’s a good man,” she argues, her voice on the verge of cracking. “And I love him.” She takes a deep breath and spins, fixing the Dark One with a wet and furious glare. “Now let them go.”

There’s no longer any amusement, mock or otherwise, on the Crocodile’s face, only bitterness. “You know my price,” he hisses.

The vine tightens again, and Killian knows by the Queen’s weak cry that all three of them are being strangled this time. His head pounds, his lungs burn, and darkness beings to close in on him once more.

There’s a dazzling flash of light as a magical rift splits open in the air next to Emma, and he can vaguely see her reach through and draw something out of it. The light winks away, and she’s left wielding an elaborate sword with a large red stone gleaming in the pommel. “You want it?” she asks angrily, swiping the blade through the air with a turn of her wrist and shifting into a fighting stance. “Come get it.”

The Dark One snorts. “Oh, come now. I defeated _him_ once with a sword,” he says, nodding at Killian and conjuring a blade for himself out of thin air. “You really think you’re a match for me?”

“Considering this sword can actually kill you,” Emma snaps, “I’d say it’s at least a fairer fight.” She holds up her empty left hand. “There's also this.” A glowing white sphere of energy rips from her fingers and strikes him dead on, and she launches forward with her sword as he stumbles back, executing a swing toward his left side.

He manages to catch her weapon with his at the last moment, his snarl barely audible over the clash of the steel. “Yes, that _is_ a little irritating, he admits, pushing her away with a grunt.

Emma comes at him again, and their arms blur as they crisscross through the air, the blades contacting over and over in a mesmerizing flurry of strikes and parries. She dodges a blow to her right and spins left, launching another series of magical blasts on the return.

Killian feels the slight loosening of the vines around his neck and chest, but the Demon otherwise weathers Emma’s onslaught looking none the worse for wear. He straightens after her latest volley and blocks another blow, his blade catching hers near the hilt. “Is that the best you can do?” he grunts, shoving her backward again.

Emma reaches down and pulls out her dagger. “No.” She narrows her eyes and whips it in his direction.

The Dark One laughs, avoiding the little knife easily and wading in for another strike.

Killian glances down as best he can and glimpses Emma’s dagger embedded in the vine binding his hook, the blade having just skimmed the thick leather of his brace. _Bloody brilliant woman_. He tears what’s left of the vine with a yank, pulling his arm free and reaching up to finesse the tip of his hook beneath the length of the vine encircling his neck. The sharpened steel slices right through, and he sucks in a deep breath as the plant falls away.

Emma gives a guttural yell the likes of which he has never heard from her, anger burning in her eyes as she unleashes an even more powerful torrent of magical energy, the sustained blast actually driving the Crocodile to shield his face and retreat a few steps. 

Killian winces at the blinding light, ripping away the last of the vines as quickly as he can. He drops to the floor, pulse bounding in his ears as he snags Emma’s dagger and rolls toward the hearth, his arm stretching the blade toward the purplish-black ink pooled on the worn stone.

Emma’s power is fearsome to behold, but after several long minutes, she can sustain it no longer, and the magic finally dissipates. She nearly loses her grip when the Dark One bats her feeble follow-up strike aside, his muddy brown hair now haphazard in his eyes and his features twisted with feral resentment. 

“That’s quite enough, Princess,” he bellows. 

He waves his free hand, and Emma utters a cry as an invisible wave catches her in the chest and flings her sideways. She crashes into one of the elaborate stained glass windows that line the west wall, and Excalibur clangs to the floor as she collapses beneath a shower of sparkling rainbow shards.

“Emma!” Her parents scream, watching with horrified expressions as the Dark One advances on their daughter’s fallen form. 

“No more games,” he fumes.

Killian launches forward, wrapping his arms around the Demon’s shoulders from behind and plunging Emma’s dagger into his chest with a loud grunt. The ink-coated blade slides home, and it’s as though flesh turns to stone when the Dark One suddenly freezes like a life-sized statue. 

“I agree,” Killian grits, his tone fierce and deadly in the Crocodile’s ear. He releases him and scrambles to Emma’s side, broken glass crushing beneath his boots as he kneels and gingerly brushes the shards off of her with his sleeve. “Emma? Love?” His voice betrays his fear as he gently rolls her over.

She winces a little and groans. 

Her signs of life lift an enormous weight off his chest. “Thank the gods,” he breathes, tracing the side of her face reverently with his fingers. His jaw clenches at the sight of blood oozing from a jagged cut on her forehead. “Lie still, darling. It’s going to be alright.” 

Wrath writhes and thunders like a tempest in his chest, and his eyes fall on Excalibur. He rises, taking up the sword and swinging it in the Dark One’s direction. “I’ve waited over a century for this,” he grinds out, stalking toward his foe. “You don’t know the number of ways I’ve dreamed of ending your miserable existence.”

The Crocodile grunts, still frozen. “Then do it,” he manages, his face locked in a nightmarish scowl.

Killian gnashes his teeth and raises the blade level with his shoulder, drawing back his elbow and preparing to ram the weapon straight into the other man’s heart an inch below Emma’s dagger. He stares down the length of the blade, momentarily eyeing the intricate engraving that covers the flat of the undulating steel with a black floral motif. One lunge. One thrust to get his revenge and end the threat to Emma forever. 

_Murder and revenge change you. They turn your heart dark._

_I’m already a villain. My heart’s as dark as they come._

_Your heart may not be as dark as you think._

His conversation with the Blue Fairy echoes into his head, followed by the whisper of Emma’s words spoken into his skin.

_I love you._

_After all these years, you’re still capable of good things._

_Good things._ He remembers her smile when he rallied his crew to go after the slavers, and the palpable hope he’d felt watching children running free across the deck of the ship that had imprisoned them suddenly resurfaces and quells the storm raging in his heart. He thinks of singing to her as they dance, of the sweet sound of her laughter, of the satisfaction of drawing her close, of the peace and contentment – elusive for so long – that he finds in cradling her sleeping form.

And something in the depths of his soul cracks.

_Perhaps there’s something more valuable than gold or jewels or even revenge worth fighting for now._

“A lifetime contemplating your death,” he growls at the Crocodile. “My revenge was all I had left, and I let it turn me dark.” A wave of anguish and shame washes over him, and he turns his head toward Emma, blinking back the emotion in his eyes and taking a slow breath. “But I have something else now,” he says quietly. “Someone else. And she’s more important than my vengeance.”

He registers the surprise in those golden eyes as he steps back and whips Excalibur around sideways so the strong of the blade comes to rest at the base of the Dark One’s throat. “Leave Emma and her family alone,” he orders gravely. “From this day on they are all to be permanently protected from your interference. In exchange, I let you live.” He lifts his brow expectantly. “Do we have a deal?”

The Dark One’s eyes flit across his face, as though searching for a weak point, a bluff. “An interesting proposition, Captain,” he drawls.

Killian presses the blade more firmly into his skin, the edge dangerously close to slicing flesh. “I’m still an impatient man,” he warns. “You have five seconds to accept. Five… four…”

“Oh very well, very well!” The Crocodile rolls his eyes in disgust. “Agreed.”

A low moan reaches their ears, and Killian turns his head to see Emma trying to sit up. He lowers Excalibur and hurries over, setting the sword next to him as he drops back down and carefully buoys Emma up against his chest. “Easy, Swan.”

“Killian.” She rotates a little and throws her arms awkwardly around his shoulders, pressing the side of her face to his neck.

“You okay?” he whispers, cupping the base of her skull and winding his fingers into the mess of her hair that has long since fallen out of its braid.

She nods eagerly against him, and they both breathe grateful sighs as he closes his eyes and squeezes her tight, gratified to feel her arms firmly squeezing back. Emma reaches up to stroke the back of his head reassuringly. “Help me up.”

They struggle to their feet, with Emma reaching for Excalibur’s hilt and bringing it with them.

He eyes her wound. “Your head, love…”

She straightens with a soft groan, but flashes him a hasty smile, some encouraging color returning to her face. “Later,” she promises. She turns and waves her free hand, and the vines binding her parents disintegrate into nothingness. 

The King and Queen fall away from the pillars, coughing and rubbing their necks, and Emma’s father stumbles over to her mother to make sure she’s alright.

While her parents regain their composure, Emma raises the sword aloft and releases it with a gesture. The blade hovers in mid-air, and Killian watches her raise her arms, bowing her head as determination hardens her expression. The veins bulge on her forehead, and her outstretched hands begin to tremor. Gold-white light pours from them and envelops the sword, growing brighter and brighter until it wrenches the blade into two with a great flash and the sound of rending steel. The pieces float apart, rotating lazily in the air until she poofs them away, one after the other.

The squid ink wears off and the Dark One stumbles forward just as Excalibur disappears. Emma shoots him an appraising frown as he regains his balance. “Sorry. Looks like you’re going back to the drawing board,” she tells him flatly.

The Demon’s face grows malevolent, and he yanks her dagger from his chest and tosses it aside. “At least I get a consolation prize,” he snaps, waving his hand.

Killian yells as he’s flung backward again. He crashes into the edge of the round table this time, severe pain erupting in his side and the wind leaving his lungs as he groans and struggles to brace himself upright. 

The Dark One closes the distance between them. “You left me a little loophole, dearie. There’s nothing in our deal that says I can’t still kill _you_.”

Killian’s nostrils flare as he tries to catch his breath, every excursion of his chest wall searing like a red-hot poker. He grits his teeth in defiance. “I protected the people that matter,” he wheezes.

“Stop!” The commanding tone of Emma’s voice is enough to make even the Dark One pause and turn his head. She runs forward and positions herself in his path, shoulders rigid and head held high as she stares him down. “You will not touch him.”

“You and your parents are free to go.” The Demon flips his hand dismissively toward the door before pointing at Killian. “But this one is _mine_.”

“No,” she counters forcefully. “He’s _mine_. And you can’t have him.”

Yellowed teeth gleam as the Dark One smiles coldly. “That’s very touching,” he simpers, narrowing his eyes. “But, if you haven’t noticed, our deal only protects you and your family.”

“Yes.” Emma licks her lips. “And that includes my husband.”

The Dark One falters, his brow wrinkling, and Emma spins, grabbing Killian’s shoulders and fixing him with an earnest expression. “I know this is unconventional,” she says with a nervous little laugh, “but I’ve spent my whole life hearing about True Love.” She glances at her parents’ unreadable expressions before turning her eyes back up to him. “And I have you now, and I’m not letting you go.”

Killian reaches forward and grunts at the wrenching discomfort that shoots along his ribs when he pulls her into his arms. “This isn’t how this was supposed to happen,” he groans with an agonized chuckle. “I was going to let your parents hold my feet to the fire for a while and then win them over with my charm and dashing good looks before I asked for their blessing.”

Emma chuffs, her bright eyes growing wet as she fixes him with a lopsided smile. “Really? You had a plan?”

He does his best to smirk. “Of course I had a plan, Swan.” He re-sobers, wincing and attempting to keep his breathing even. “Since the day I met you, all I’ve wanted is to be by your side.”

She bursts into another soft little laugh and sniffles. “So what do you say?”

The words lodge themselves in his throat, and he glances anxiously at the King and Queen.

“Oh, do it already!” Emma’s mother suddenly blurts out, looking misty. 

His heart leaps, and he meets the King’s eye. Emma’s father appears solemn and apprehensive, but he gives him an almost imperceptible nod at last. Killian nods back, reaching toward his breast to lift one of his chains over his head. A small silver ring with flowers flanking a dark oval stone dangles from his fingers, and his chest is tight with both pain and emotion as he holds it out to Emma. “I know it’s not fit for royalty,” he says softly, “but this belonged to Liam. Now it belongs to you.” He raises his gaze, folding the ring into her upturned palm and giving her a watery smile. “Princess… Emma…” He chuckles at how shaky he is. “Swan. Will you marry me?”

Emma cups his face in her hands, her eyes shining. “Yes. Yes, I will.”

Her kiss fills him with tearful elation, and he thinks, despite the stabbing pain in his side, he’d be happy to just live this moment over and over again for the rest of his life.

Perhaps out of curiosity or, dare it be suggested, an actual shred of respect, the Dark One waits until they pull apart to clear his throat. “If you two are quite done, allow me to ruin the moment by pointing out that you’re not married _yet_ ,” he remarks, though his tone is less insistent than before. “I can still kill him anytime between now and the wedding.”

“They don’t need a wedding.”

All heads turn toward the King, whose stony mask is softened by suspiciously red-rimmed eyes.

“As King and Queen, we can declare them married even without a ceremony,” he says calmly. “If what you said before is true and this is True Love – if he loves Emma the way I love her mother,” he arches an eyebrow at Killian, “then you can consider it done.”

Killian’s mouth falls open at the King’s words, and he turns back to Emma to see the surprise and awe he feels reflected her eyes. She throws her arms around him impulsively, and he recoils and yelps.

“Oh gods! Sorry! Sorry.” Emma jerks away, chagrined. “Here.” She hastily loops his chain over her head before reaching out and applying her hands to his injured side. They glow golden, and the most delicious warmth penetrates his skin. His breaths grow deeper and more relaxed as the pain begins to ease almost immediately. 

“There _will_ be a wedding, though,” Emma’s mother interjects, catching his eye from across the room and looking hopeful, “won’t there?”

Killian looks down at Emma. Her attention remains on his broken ribs, but he spies the dimple that appears in her cheek, and he smiles. “Yes, your Highness. I suppose there will.” 

“Well, congratulations, pirate,” the Dark One snarks, looking slightly nauseated. “You’re now subject to the whims of the female sex.” He takes a step back. “Let's hope you find it a fate worse than death,” he mutters.

Killian chuckles as Emma's magic fades, and he gazes down at her fondly and gathers her in his arms. “I’ll take my chances.” To his grim delight, the Crocodile huffs, flicking his wrist and disappearing in a swirl of thick plum-colored fog without another word.

The remaining tension leaves Emma’s shoulders as soon as the Dark One is gone, and Killian turns his attention to her face, his thumb grazing her cheekbone as he inspects the drying blood on her temple with concern. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

She rolls her eyes and erases all traces of the injury with a wave of her hand before rising up on her toes to press a soft kiss to his mouth. Her lips curl upward into a grin that matches his. “Never better.”

The King harrumphs, and they spring apart, Emma flushing pink like a rose. She grabs the crook of Killian’s arm and hauls him over to her parents, dropping into a brief curtsy. “Thank you, Papa.” 

Her father’s gaze softens, and he steps forward to sweep her into a bear hug, his relief more obvious on his face now. “No, sweetheart. Thank you. You risked your life to protect us. Twice. I’m so proud of you.”

Fingers touch his arm, and Killian suddenly finds himself looking into a familiar set of green eyes when he turns toward Emma’s mother. Snow White’s face shines with unexpected warmth, and she holds out her hand. “Thank you for taking care of our daughter, Captain.”

He plants a kiss on her knuckles, and his breath catches when she suddenly pulls him into a hug of her own, her arms wrapping around his and causing emotion to bloom in his chest. “You know what it’s like to love someone,” he manages with a weak laugh, embracing the petite woman carefully. “What else could I have done?” He blinks hard when she returns him to arm’s length. “I know I’m not the man you and your husband wanted for Emma,” he admits, bowing his head and trying to swallow the heavy lump in his throat. “I’ve hurt a lot of people and been on the wrong side of good for too long.”

Snow scrutinizes him intently. “We’ve all done things we regret, Captain. And for what it’s worth, you won’t be first person in this family who’s spent time as a wanted criminal,” she replies. Her eyes dart momentarily toward Emma and the King. “Emma has always been an excellent judge of character, and she’s turned down a lot of suitors. If she chose you, you must be someone very special,” she says with a kind smile. “You’re willing to put her first, and you’re her True Love.” Snow fixes her daughter with a wistful gaze and sighs. “And that’s all we’ve ever wanted for her.”

 

* * * 

 

The sound of steel on steel and the occasional enthusiastic calls from Emma and Killian to one another fill the morning air as the couple spars in the west courtyard just outside the royal living quarters, all smiles as their blades fly and flash in the sun.

From the terrace of their breakfast room above, David watches his daughter and her… new husband (the thought still makes him bristle a little) engage each other and break apart to regroup over and over again. He catches himself smiling grimly when Emma executes a daring attack on Killian’s right and nearly succeeds in throwing him off balance. _She’s gotten better – much better_ , he thinks. He’d noticed it even during her battle with the Dark One – how much more sure and fluid her movements are, how she transitions from a block to her next strike much more instinctively, how much more effectively she guards herself. 

There’s nothing for him to do but grudgingly admit that the pirate has been teaching her well – as far as swordplay goes, anyway. The King’s stomach clenches at the idea of what else the pirate has been teaching his little girl late at night away from prying eyes, and he swallows hard as he tries to put the idea out of his mind for the umpteenth time. Tensions between the two men had in fact come to a head that first evening when Emma had faltered at the idea of Killian being housed in the guest wing and – in quite possibly the most awkward conversation David can remember suffering – she’d finally confessed that she preferred to have Killian share her quarters instead. Snow had turned far more red than white but had done her best to be gracious, stammering that of course Emma would want to “spend time” with her new husband, but David had merely stared daggers at the pirate, too overwhelmed with unwanted mental images and indignation to say anything. That was two days ago, and while he’d like to think he’s managed to be civil, a cloud remains over his head.

He watches as Emma and Killian appear to agree to a rest, and he purses his lips. “Marcus?” he calls.

Hovering nearby as he usually is this time of day, the groom pokes his head into the room. “Sire?”

David narrows his eyes in Killian’s direction. “Can you have my sword taken down to the yard please?”

“David.” Still finishing her morning cup of tea at the breakfast table, Snow shoots him a warning look he knows all too well.

He does his best to look innocent. “I just feel like a little practice, honey. Maybe Emma or Hoo- Killian will indulge me.”

“Right.” She eyes him dryly. “You know if you injure him, you’ll have to answer to Emma, right?”

He comes over and steals a quick kiss. “No one’s getting hurt, I promise.” He smiles as his wife rolls her eyes, planting one more peck on her forehead before he heads for the door.

Emma looks similarly suspicious when he arrives in the courtyard asking for a match, and her eyebrows lift with dismay when Killian gamely volunteers. David doesn’t miss the look of foreboding, so like her mother’s, that she shoots her new husband, but the pirate merely grins, his posture relaxed. “No worries, Swan. I told you when we first met that I thought you’d been trained by a great swordsman.” He gestures at David. “Now I have the pleasure of proving myself right.”

She snorts.

“We’ll be fine, sweetheart,” David says firmly, accepting his favorite longsword from one of the valets with a grateful nod. 

“If you hurt each other, I’m not healing either of you,” she huffs, spinning on her heel and heading inside.

The men watch her go before turning their attention back to each other. 

Killian grins. “So what do you say, Your Highness?” he asks jovially. “First to disarm?”

David unsheathes his weapon and tosses the scabbard to the valet before rotating his wrist a few times to loosen it up, his face turning humorless as the steel swings like an extension of his arm. “Sounds good.” 

They face each other and assume their stances, taking silent stock of the other’s posturing and subtle movements. Having already seen the pirate spar with Emma, David has a sense of what he’s up against. He knows Killian has a right to be confident, but there’s still something about the lack of tension in the man's shoulders and the anticipatory gleam in his kohl-lined eyes that fuels David’s desire to take him down a peg.

There’s only a brief moment before he springs forward with his first attack, his sword cutting through the air and meeting Killian’s block with satisfying force, the impact vibrating up the length of the blade and buzzing his hand before he reverses direction and slices again from the left.

Killian remains purely on the defensive for the first few minutes, trading his smirk for a look of concentration, his lips folded and his brow bent. When he does begin to execute cuts of his own, his attacks are precise and perfectly-timed, and it becomes obvious to David that the pirate is actually much better than he originally anticipated. Sweat dampens his forehead and his arms grow tired, but he keeps up his offensive, pouring his frustration over having lost his daughter only to have her returned but lost to him in an entirely different way – and to a _pirate_ , no less – into every blow.

To his credit, Killian seems to understand his need to fight, shouldering the wordless anger patiently while never giving ground. 

At last, when there’s more exhaustion than resentment in his movements, David pulls back and pauses, narrowing his eyes at his new son-in-law. “Why haven’t you won yet?” he demands, chest heaving.

“Your Highness?” Killian also catches his breath while feigning ignorance almost convincingly. 

David angles his head as he considers the possibilities. “You’re holding back.” He braces his free hand on his hip. “Why?”

Killian averts his eyes and shrugs. “Maybe I’m just enjoying the chance to have some real competition.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so. You were sparring with Emma before this. You have to be at least a little tired.” The King squints. “Are you trying to let me win?”

Killian chuckles and arches an eyebrow. “You think a dastardly pirate would give up bragging rights over a king?”

David surveys him thoughtfully. “You’re not dastardly. Not anymore, anyway,” he says at last.

Emma’s husband lets his confident façade fall away for a rare moment, blinking at him with eyes that look almost anxious. “You really believe that?”

David sighs, recalling Killian’s heroism in the battle with the Dark One, and the ire he’s been feeling for the past few days begins to lessen as he nods. “I do.” He glances down at his sword and shakes out his arm a little. “I also believe you want to throw this match in order to get on my good side.”

“Would you fault me if I did?”

He finally cracks a smile. “I guess not,” he acquiesces. He meets Killian’s eye soberly. “You really love Emma.”

The emotion that appears on Killian’s face at the question makes his nod unnecessary. “More than my life,” he says quietly. He chuffs. “More than my ship, even.”

David frowns. “What are you planning to do with your ship, by the way?”

Killian gives him a sad smile. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I don’t know what use I’ll have for her beyond pleasure cruises now, but that’s not what she’s built for. I may give her to my crew. At least I know they’ll take care of her.”

David bobs his head, jutting his lower lip out as the seed of an idea begins to form. After a moment, he raises his sword once more. “I want you to try to disarm me,” he announces. “No going easy, just fair and square. And when you and I are done here, I have a proposal that might interest you.”

“A proposal?” Killian’s face lights up, his dimples appearing with that devilish grin of his. “I don’t know how to break it to you, mate, but I’m a happily married man now.”

David laughs in spite of himself and shakes his head as he aims a fresh cut at Killian’s midsection. “Shut up, pirate.”

 

* * * 

 

The night air is filled with the chirps of frogs and crickets, the whisper of wind through thick groves of trees, the occasional hoot of an owl, and the soft slosh of the lake against the rocky shore. Emma closes her eyes as she listens, leaned up against the stone doorway leading out to her balcony and pulling her hairbrush through a section of her locks in a long-practiced rhythm. _Home_. Her lips tilt upward. It sounds like home.

The quiet pad of footsteps makes her turn and look over her shoulder. Killian approaches, dressed in the pale cotton shirt and trousers he’s taken to wearing at night. She smiles to herself at the half-open way he wears the shirt – not so different from the way he wears any shirt, really. She flushes. _Pirate_.

“You’re still awake,” she observes with a grin.

“Aye. As are you.” He slips his hand around her waist as he draws near enough to all but press her up against the doorway. “You’d best come to bed soon if you still plan on making the trip with me back to the harbor tomorrow. We leave early,” he reminds her, leaning in for a slow kiss that makes her toes curl.*

She hums and smiles against his lips. “Of course I’m coming. I want to see the crew again.” Her eyes flicker back and forth over his face with gentle concern. “How do you think they’re taking the news?”

He sobers a bit and pulls away to wander out to the balustrade. “Well enough. I imagine some of the men have decided to stay and help us build the new naval guard your father proposed. The ones that don’t can find positions on other crews that come through or travel to bigger ports and find opportunities there. With their share of the reward money, I imagine they’ll all be quite comfortable, at any rate.”

Emma deposits her brush on a small table just inside the doorway and follows, subconsciously turning her ring around her finger and facing him with her hip against the rail.

He glances over and takes her left hand to admire, yet again, how well the band fits. “What shall I give you at the wedding ceremony, love?” he asks, thumbing the silver. “This ring? Or would you prefer a prettier one? Something with a nicer stone, perhaps.”

“What? No,” Emma chuckles and shakes her head. “I love this stone.” She gives him a sly sideways look. “It reminds me of you.”

Killian’s eyebrow arcs, and he lifts his head, adorably perplexed. “Does it?”

“Mm-hmm.” She hums coyly and turns her eyes back to the ring. “When you first gave it to me, I thought the stone was black. That’s how it looks at a glance or in the shadows.” The corner of her mouth quirks knowingly. “But put it in the light,” she continues, triggering white light to glow from her right hand and using it to illuminate the ring, “and it shows its true color.” A rich crimson hue appears in the depths of the stone, and her smile widens as she gazes down at it fondly. “It’s not as dark as you think it is. It’s just a much deeper red than most red stones.” She hums. “It’s like carrying your heart with me.” Emma looks up at him shyly. “Does that sound silly?”

The softness of his expression –wonder and love radiating from his handsome face – makes her heart skip a beat, and though he’s kissed her hundreds of times over the last two weeks, her breathing still grows shallow as he leans in. “No, Swan,” he murmurs, his voice a little thick. “That sounds lovely and kind. Just like you.”

Her arms find their way around his neck, and he drags her to him with his hand and brace on her hips, rumbling low and happy in his chest. Their lips move in tandem, the now-familiar burn of his scruff sending a excited shiver across her skin, and the gentle slide of his tongue against hers stokes the heat gathering in the pit of her belly. Killian stops kissing her just long enough to reach down and hook his arm under her legs, and he sweeps her up off the flagstones, the lace hem of her nightgown fluttering gently in the breeze. Emma giggles as his mouth finds hers again, and she feels his dimple appear under her thumb. “Time for bed?”

“Aye.”

 

* * *

 

“You’re sure you don’t want us to come with you?” Snow lifts her eyebrows and fidgets a bit with her hands as she stands in the courtyard and watches Emma and Killian double-check the contents of their saddlebags. “We could change clothes and be ready to go in no time.”

The morning is clear and crisp, and the gentle wind that plays with their hair carries the earthy scents of spring and neutralizes the warmth of the sunlight that spills across the castle grounds.

Emma flashes her mother a patient grin and shakes her head with a subtle swish of her ponytail. “We’ll be alright,” she assures her again, tugging the heavy satchel flap down and securing it before coming over to indulge the Queen in a prolonged hug. “We won’t be gone long.”

“I know, but you just got home,” Snow sighs over her shoulder. She pulls back and holds Emma before her with a helpless smile, fondly admiring the way her daughter looks in her newest riding ensemble complete with trousers and swordbelt. She brushes an imaginary speck of dust off of Emma’s smooth black leather jerkin with dark red trim that, aside from the deep curving V-neck, is apparently very reminiscent of one of the King’s favorite coats. “Can you blame me for trying?”

Killian finishes with his bag and approaches, reaching out to pat his black and white charger on the neck in passing. “I brought her back to you safe once,” he says with a chuckle. “I promise to do so again.”

“We’ll hold you to that,” Emma’s father’s voice carries over to them. The King finishes inspecting the contents of the armored wagon that’s to accompany them, nodding his approval to the guardsman who stands by. He swings the door shut and comes to join them, wiping some trace grime off his hands. “The gold is set,” he announces. “Give your men our thanks.”

Killian grins. “Aye, I will.” His heart swells as the King holds out his hand and they grasp forearms. 

“You two stay safe and come home soon,” David tells him solemnly. The crow’s feet at corners of his light blue eyes deepen ever so slightly. “I don’t know if I can get her mother to hold off on wedding planning for more than a few days.”

A quiet laugh escapes him, and Killian bobs his head.

The King turns to Emma and cups the back of her head with his hand, planting a firm kiss on her head as he draws her close. “Take care of yourself, sweetheart. We’ll see you soon.”

“I love you, Papa.” Emma hums and grins as he releases her. She tugs her jerkin straight over her white ruffled shirt and turns back toward her horse. “Time to go, Bug.” The pretty golden buckskin with black mane and matching stockings knickers in response as her mistress slides into the saddle.

Killian grins at the obvious affection between his wife and her favorite mare as he mounts beside them, getting his seat and reaching for the reins as Emma does the same.

“Try to keep your second trip together less eventful than your first,” David suggests up to them with a wry chuckle.

Killian’s eyes glint mischievously. “If you insist.” He glances over at Emma. “Ready?” 

The Princess looks to the guards driving the wagon and smiles when they give her a nod. “Yeah,” she says, turning her sunny face back to him.

He sidles his horse a step closer to hers. “Then by all means, love,” he says with a wink and a tip of his head toward the castle gate, “lead the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * illustration by @giraffes-ride-swordfishes (http://giraffes-ride-swordfishes.tumblr.com/post/166786107291/happy-beginnings-by-worldangel-deviantart)


	11. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally done! Oh, thank God. *giddy laughter* It seems appropriate that I'm posting the epilogue to this story on a Wednesday, just as I did with the rest of the chapters. Writing this fic has been an insanely wild ride for me, fulls of high highs and low lows, and I really can't thank you all enough for the astounding things you guys have said about this story and the encouragement you gave me to keep pushing forward even when I really didn't feel like it. You're the best. XOXO

“Your face is going to get stuck that way, you know.”

Killian looks up from the rolls of parchment laid out before him on the low table in the sitting area by the fireplace, the wrinkle between his eyes fading and his features turning amused. “Afraid it will make me less handsome, Swan?”

Emma rolls her eyes and comes over, forcing him to sit back in the chair as she slides into his lap. “Seriously, you’ve been studying those plans for an hour.”

“You’ve seen the Jolly,” he says patiently, settling his left arm snugly around her hips and admiring the way the her face appears luminous and her hair shines like actual gold in the firelight. “You know how complex square-rigged vessels are. Building a few more for the fleet is no small undertaking. Failure to plan properly—”

“Yes, yes, I know.” She chuckles and touches her lips to his cheek. “But tomorrow’s a big day. We should go to bed.”

He hums, turning his head to meet her for a quick kiss. “I’d like nothing better.” He pulls back a few inches and tucks a stray lock behind her ear. “But I can’t tonight. Go to bed. In our bed, I mean.”

Emma’s back goes ramrod straight, and she cocks her head. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m not staying _here_ tonight,” he says, blinking at her as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding.”

She narrows one eye, an incredulous grin hinting at her lips. “You can’t be serious. We're already married.”

His brows flatten into a straight line of pure indignation. “A seafaring man—”

“—does not take superstitions lightly,” she chimes in, bobbing her head resignedly and rolling her eyes at him again despite taking great pleasure in how adorable her pirate husband is being. “I know, I know.”

As if on cue, there comes a knock on the door. Marcus enters when they bid it open. “Pardon the interruption, Princess,” he says with a little bow. “I came to see if the Captain’s things were ready to be moved to the guest quarters. We have the rooms prepared for him.”

Emma's forehead creases at how she seems to be the last to know about Killian’s plans to spend the evening elsewhere, and her mouth opens and closes in unspoken protest as he moves beneath her to stand.

“I suppose I should be going,” he says, climbing to his feet after she clears his lap and leaning over to gather up his schematics.

She watches him set the papers aside on a bookshelf, and her jaw drops when he retrieves a small gunny sack that sits in plain view beside the washstand. 

He slings it over his shoulder and eyes her pout with a soft smile. “Don’t worry, love,” he murmurs, coming back to her to plant a lingering kiss on her lips. “After tomorrow, there’ll be no getting rid of me.”

The corner of her mouth twitches. “Promise?”

The confident grin on his face makes her heart flutter. “Aye.” He leans in for one last kiss before heading for the door, waving off Marcus’ offer to carry the sack and throwing her one last wily smile over his shoulder before he disappears.

Emma nods to Marcus as the groom gives her a hasty bow and hurries after him. Despite her disappointment at having sleep alone, she catches herself grinning until her cheeks protest as she readies herself for bed. She studies her silhouette in the full-length mirror while she brushes her hair and bites the inside of her lip, anticipation stirring in her stomach. _Tomorrow is a big day_ , she thinks again, forcing herself to take a deep breath in and out to try to quiet her excited nerves. A private smile pulls at the side of her mouth.

_Understatement of the year._

 

* * *

 

Though it’s been busier than usual all week with the arrival of dignitaries and royal entourages and the delivery of food and flowers and other assorted provisions for the wedding, the courtyard becomes a virtual hive of activity just after daybreak. Squires bearing the colors of their individuals houses run to and fro, maids and grooms bustle by on their appointed tasks, and an intense cloud of chatter rises to Killian’s ears as he observes it all through the open guestroom window. His mouth quirks as he spies Alec and Thomas, as clean and well-dressed as he’s ever seen them, flirting with a pair of ladies-in-waiting, the young women tittering and flashing his men appraising looks before wandering away.

There’s a solid knock on the door, and Killian turns. “Yes?” He blinks with pleasant surprise when Emma’s father appears, dressed in a resplendent bright red coat with elaborate platinum beading that is truly fit for a king. “Good morning.”

“’Morning.” David holds up a small polished wooden box. “The dwarves just delivered this, and I thought I’d bring it up myself.”

Killian accepts it with a curious wrinkle across his forehead. “What is it?” He flicks the small swinging latch open and uses his hook to lift the lid. His brow arcs at the first glint of silver.

“As Emma’s husband, you’re entitled to a royal signet ring,” David explains. “You’re not obligated to wear it, but it’s yours now. You know,” he catches Killian’s eye and a wry grin tugs at his mouth, “as a member of the family.”

Killian blinks several times as he takes in the wide polished surface of the engraved sigil – the seven flowers above a lion that he’s grown accustomed to seeing everywhere now accented by a small object in the center of the chevron that separates them. His eyes widen as he recognizes the shape. “Is that an anchor?”

The King shrugs, his crow’s feet crinkling. “Hope you don’t mind us presuming. We wanted to make it yours. It was Emma’s idea.”

Killian licks his lips, a small swell of emotion rising in his chest at the idea of Emma and her parents collaborating on this in order to surprise him. “It’s amazing,” he croaks.

“I know you’ve already got several rings,” David says hastily, gesturing at Killian’s hand. He frowns when he realizes that Killian’s jewelry is conspicuously absent. “Which are…”

“Put away, mate,” Killian supplies, rotating his wrist to display his bare fingers. “Pieces of the man I used to be.” He sets the box down on a dresser and pulls the signet ring out, finagling it past the knuckles of his first finger. “This is a better fit for me now.” He admires it one more time before setting the box aside and looking up at his father-in-law soberly. “Thank you.”

David beams and claps a hand on his shoulder. “It’s going to be a good day.”

Color blooms on Killian’s cheeks, and he chuckles. “Yes, it is.”

 

* * *

 

The wedding is like something out of a dream, but better and more magical than any of Emma’s girlhood fantasies. The bodice of her daringly strapless gown is covered in swan feathers that wrap around her torso and fan out over the top of the bustle behind her before giving way to yards of white organza that swirl and layer down to the floor like the foamy waves of high tide. She’s tried the dress on several times for fittings last week, but it isn’t until she sees herself in it today – staring at her reflection in the mirror with her hair done up in a romantic chignon at the back of her head and borrowed, jewel-encrusted earrings dangling from her ears – that the thrill of the occasion really sets in. She fingers the large, intricate, diamond-studded clasp that sits at her waist like a belt buckle and smoothes her hand down over her belly with her lip between her teeth. _Everything is perfect._

Her mother looks weepy as she stands behind her shoulder and takes it all in, her hands pressed together and held up to her lips. “Oh, Emma. You look incredible, honey.”

Emma aims a watery smile back at her through the mirror, her heart fluttering in her chest. “The dress looks really good, doesn’t it?”

Snow nods eagerly, breaking into a happy laugh. “Yes, it does.” A knowing grin pulls at her cheeks. “You’re going to have such a wonderful wedding,” she says with a blissful sigh. “I probably shouldn’t tell you, but Killian has a few surprises waiting for you today.”

Emma’s brows angle upward. “Really?”

“Mm-hmm.” Snow’s smile turns dreamy. She steps forward and hugs Emma from behind, one hand wrapped around each of her daughter’s shoulders. “He loves you so much. I’m so happy you found each other.”

Emma runs her hand down the front of her dress again, fingers lingering momentarily just below her waist, and suppresses a happy shudder. “I am too.”

The Rainbow Hall, the same room where her parents were married, is sparkling with its namesake colors, sunlight spilling through the enormous, jewel-toned stained glass windows to glimmer off every surface and set the room aglow like a prism. _Rainbow light_ , Emma thinks with a nostalgic grin as she walks through the grand double doors. _A good place to celebrate True Love._

In the heart of it all, at the foot of the round central dais and surrounded by a endless sea of guests, stands Killian, handsome as ever in his long leather coat with his boots polished and his cutlass at his side. Emma catches sight of a new deep red vest peeking out from between his customary layers of black, and she smiles as it reminds her of the color hidden in the stone of the ring he’s about to give her once again. His lips part when he sees her, his shining blue eyes and his awed smile drawing her like a beacon as she makes her way down the aisle with her father on one arm and her mother on the other.

The dwarves stand at the front of the crowd beside spry old Granny Lucas and her granddaughter, Emma’s godmother, Red, and there isn’t a dry eye among them, least of all Grumpy’s. The crotchety little man sniffles as she passes, moisture glinting in the corner of his eye like a diamond, and Emma chuckles and flashes him an affectionate smile. 

To her right she sees Killian’s men, hardly recognizable in clean clothes and freshly washed faces, and she beams impossibly wide and blushes at the wondrous expressions worn by Alec, Thomas, Martin, Smee, and even Roberts when they see her, the windblown girl who used to sit upon the top and dance barefoot on deck now looking like an angel come down from heaven. Her heart swells as she takes a quick account and realizes that every member of the crew has come, and somehow she knows that they’re here for her as much as they are their captain.

When they finally arrive at the dais, she exchanges tearful hugs and kisses with her parents before her father genially grasps forearms with Killian and the King and Queen step aside. She reaches for her husband’s outstretched hand, blinking back the sting in her eyes, and the two of them share a smile that feels oddly private despite being witnessed by hundreds of well-wishers. 

“Ready, love?” he murmurs, squeezing her fingers.

She glances down and notices the new signet ring on his index finger, the clean, silver band over his thumb, and a vacant spot on his ring finger – a spot reserved now for _her_ ring – and she chokes back a little laugh and nods.

He leads her up the steps, and she gasps when they’re met at the top, not by the bishop, but by her godfather, Lance, a majestic sight with his close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair and blood red cape draped over his gleaming suit of armor.

Lance’s face splits into a big, white smile, and his dark eyes dance as her mouth falls open. “Hope you don’t mind,” he rumbles jovially, “but I couldn’t let my favorite goddaughter be married by just _anyone_. May I have the honor, Emma?”

Emma shares a look with Killian, his smiling eyes confirming that he was in on this first little conspiracy, and she swallows the lump in her throat and nods her head hastily, willing herself not to cry before she can even say her vows in front of the whole kingdom. 

Lancelot raises his voice to the crowd. “My friends!” he booms, “Once upon a time I had the great privilege of conducting another wedding ceremony in a field far from here between the then Princess Snow White and the man she has always called her Prince Charming. Not many people know that the King and Queen were married quickly and in secret long before their formal nuptials ever took place in this hall, but I remember it like it was yesterday.” He throws Emma’s parents a wink before letting his gaze fall back to the young couple in front of him. “As it is with you, she wore white,” he says to Emma, “and he wore black and red,” he tells Killian. “And as it is with you, there was no question that pair of them were destined to be bound together forever.

“You, Emma and Killian, are yet another reminder that what is good and new can come from the darkest of circumstances and that hope for something better is always worth having, even when that something is hundreds of years in the making.” 

Beside her, Killian chuckles.

“Never lose sight of that hope or of each other, because they are what will sustain you if you must ever face darkness again,” Lance continues. “Do you, Captain Killian Jones, promise to take this woman as your wife and love her for all eternity?” 

Killian's eyes swim with emotion as he accepts his brother’s ring from Emma’s godfather and slips it into place on her finger, taking her hand back into his and stroking her knuckles with his thumb as he nods solemnly. “I do.”

“And do you, my dear Princess, promise to take this man as your husband and love him for all eternity?”

Emma blinks hard and suppresses a sniffle as she takes the simple silver wedding band from Lance’s outstretched hand and slides it home on Killian’s finger, a single tear finally escaping down her cheek when she looks back up at him and meets his widening grin with a breathless smile. “I do.”

The abrupt honking sound of Dopey blowing his nose off to the side makes her burst into a little giggle, and soft laughter ripples through the crowd.

Lancelot chuckles. “It is my great honor, then, to pronounce you husband and wife. May the love between you always be strong, true, and eternal.” He fixes Killian with a broad grin and nods. “You may kiss your bride.”

The applause from the assembled is deafening, the riotous cheers and whistles from the Jolly’s crew encouraging the dwarves to also let loose with enthusiastic calls, but it’s all largely lost on Emma as Killian’s arm snakes around her back and he pulls her to him for a kiss so long and so sweet that even those who still question the ability of a man like Captain Hook to reform for the sake of love are left believing in love's power a lot more and doubting him a lot less.

The celebration that follows is an historic affair, with commoners and nobles alike packing the Great Hall. White roses appear to climb the stately oak columns that tower above the assembled like pairs of great trees, while gigantic, overflowing floral arrangements are scattered throughout the room and fresh new banners bearing the royal crest sway gently high overhead. Firelight from dozens of gold chandeliers and candelabras and the hall’s six huge fireplaces combines with the last rays of the setting sun that filter through the series of tall, arched doorways standing open along the west wall. The party extends to the expansive terrace beyond with guests passing to and fro, mingling and laughing and dancing beneath both the vaulted stone ceiling and the twilight-colored clouds to the lively melodies of a merry troupe of musicians that plays in one corner. 

No sooner have Killian and Emma arrived at the hall when Blue’s telltale light appears and comes down to greet them. Around them, people crane their necks to get a glimpse of the fabled fairy as she hovers in front of the newlyweds.

“Congratulations, Emma, and to you as well, Captain,” she says with a warm smile. “No one deserves greater happiness than the two of you.” She gestures behind her. “Emma, at your new husband’s request, I brought you a special guest as a wedding gift.”

Their eyes travel beyond her, and Emma lets out a surprised cry as she recognizes the figure that starts forward from the crowd to greet them. “Maggie!”

The tavernkeep, now in a fine green cotton dress, opens her arms wide, and Emma bustles forth to accost her with an exhilarated hug. The pair laughs and sniffles at their happy reunion. “Oh, my dear,” Maggie hums, her voice thick, “I just knew you were no ordinary girl. What a sight you are for sore eyes, and what a stunning wedding it was!” She reaches one arm out and claps Killian fondly on the neck. “Well done, Captain.”

Killian chuckles, his cheeks flushing with pleasure. “Maggie.”

Emma turns and fixes him with wide, delighted eyes. “You did this too?”

“Well, _she_ did this,” he says, nodding toward Blue, who continues to float next to them. He amiably drapes his arm over Emma’s shoulders as she tucks herself into his side. “But yes, I did ask. You and I might never have met had it not been for Maggie,” he points out, flashing the older woman a grateful smile. “It only seemed right to have her here to see us married.”

“It was the least I could do,” Blue adds kindly, “considering the sacrifices you made to keep the fairies safe from the Dark One. We owe you a great deal.”

“I pretty near fell over into the cooking fire when she first came to me though,” Maggie tells Emma with a laugh and a shake of her head. “Quite a shock to meet a fairy for the first time, though the news she brought was the best I’ve ever heard.” She reaches for Emma’s hand and gives it a squeeze.

Emma chuckles and squeezes back. “How long can you stay?”

“As long as you like,” Blue answers. “When she’s ready to go home, you know how to find me. I hope you all have a lovely time.” They watch as she arcs upward and soars out through the nearest doors, her blue light disappearing into the evening sky in a brilliant flash. 

Emma turns back to Maggie with her brows raised hopefully. “You’ll stay, won’t you? At least a few days? You’ll be our honored guest.”

The other woman laughs and comes forward again to wrap her arms around both her and Killian in another motherly hug. “My gorgeous girl, nothing would make me happier.”

It’s a bit later in the evening when Killian reveals his third surprise for Emma, nodding covertly to Roberts as he and the Princess finish yet another demure formal dance on the side of the hall that has organized into an impromptu ballroom. Moments later, when he and Emma are dipping into their final bows, the sound of a fife suddenly pierces the air, and after several introductory notes, the entire group of musicians launches into a much more spritely melody with Killian’s quartermaster taking the lead.

Emma gapes as she instantly recognizes the tune, her cheeks glowing and her eyes bright, and they’re suddenly surrounded by the crew of the Jolly, the men clapping and whooping and launching into the familiar sea shanty with gusto.

_The maiden, oh, the maiden, oh,_  
_The sailor loves the maiden, oh!_

Laughter bubbles up from her belly, and she barely has time to kick her high-heeled slippers aside and appreciate the scandalized sound Marcus makes before she finds herself being swept around the floor by each of the crewmen in succession. Tonight each pauses to kiss her on the cheek before spinning her into the arms of his comrade, and she cries out with delight when Alec busses her and then hands her over to her father, who’s left his sword with the Queen and stepped forward to claim his own turn. 

The King’s pale blue eyes gleam with gratification, his distinguished features stretched into the biggest smile Emma can remember ever seeing him wear, and though he’s a little less sure of the steps than the rest of them, he acquits himself admirably, the pair of them chortling through the dance and springing back and forth across the floor with carefree, if slightly uncoordinated, abandon. And when at last his turn is ended, her father draws her forward and plants a heartfelt kiss on her forehead. “I love you, sweetheart.”

Emma sniffles. “I love you too, Papa.” She looks back up at him with wet eyes and giggles as he raises their joined hands and whirls her in Killian’s direction. The world around her blurs again until she lands back in her husband’s embrace with a happy shriek, her fingers closing instinctively around the curve of his hook while his arm winds around her back. Her heart gallops even faster as he grins devilishly and tugs her close. 

“There’s my beautiful Swan,” he rumbles. “Shall we show them how it’s really done?”

She consents with a laugh and allows him to launch them back into the familiar rhythm of their favorite jig, her bare feet flying across the cool stone floor, and while it’s harder to dance in this gown than it had been in her trousers, she still manages to follow his lead without faltering, anticipating and complementing his step with ease. He sings again to her tonight, bellowing the tune unapologetically, and her smile feels permanently plastered across her face by the time the song is ended. Thunderous applause and cheers erupt around them, and Killian dips his head and silences her wild giggles as he kisses her for all he’s worth.

Unrestrained happiness threatens to burst from her every pore in this moment, and her face is alight when he finally pulls away. “That’s three surprises,” she pants over the din, clinging to him and stealing another quick kiss before grasping his fingers and his hook and dragging him toward the terrace. “Come on. My turn.”

The guests trail after them as she draws him out to the balustrade. Emma she releases him and turns, elbows falling to her sides and palms aimed upward, and Killian and the rest of the crowd watch, enchanted, as her hands begin to glow with tiny colored flickers that seem to penetrate from beneath her skin. Waves of rainbow light suddenly burst forth and rocket skyward, drawing every eye to the heavens. The beams expand into huge, amorphous swatches of multicolored radiance that illuminate the sky, and the surrounding gasps turn into excited cries when the hues then twist back in on themselves and explode into fireworks, glittering showers hundreds of feet wide raining down high overhead in shades of pink and purple and blue. Emma’s self-indulgent smile spans ear-to-ear, her skin humming as she channels all her love and joy into her magic. 

Killian laughs and presses his chest to her back, looping his arms around her waist. “It seems I’ve been outdone,” he remarks, smiling against her ear as he marvels at her handiwork.

Emma chuckles, taking her eyes off her fireworks in order to shoot him a coy sideways glance. “And I’ve still got another ace up my sleeve.”

His interested hum sends shivers down her spine. “Pirate.” He presses a kiss to her cheek and raises his gaze back to the sky. “And when exactly do you plan to reveal this other surprise, Swan?”

“Eager, Captain?” She arches an eyebrow fetchingly, her heart skipping a beat beneath her ribs. 

She doesn’t need to see Killian’s face to hear the smirk on his lips. “Naturally, when it comes to you.”

Goosebumps rise over her shoulders, and Emma funnels her pleasant shivers into another surge of magic, launching the last and most impressive of the fireworks in a kind of grand finale. She rotates her head toward him and inches her mouth toward his, the extreme brilliance of the lights casting them in a warm glow. “When we’re alone.”

He blinks, and his eyebrow raises in that way that makes her weak in the knees. “I suppose it would be bad form to just hang the rest of the party,” he growls, his breath warm on her lips, “and let your husband haul you off to your chambers.”

“ _Our_ chambers,” she mutters with a smug grin. “And yes, terrible form.”

His lashes flutter closed as he seals his mouth over hers. “Damn.”

 

* * *

 

They do manage to sneak away half an hour later, once the festivities begin to die down, their hurried footsteps and hushed, conspiratorial laughs interspersing moments spent pressed up against stone walls and kissing like lovesick teenagers.

Emma chuckles against him as they come up for air for the third or fourth time, grateful that the guards who are normally stationed in this particular passageway are down at the celebration keeping an eye on the guests. “If we keep doing this, we’ll never get there,” she says, her voice throaty. She sighs blissfully as his lips find her jaw and begin to work back toward her ear.

“The door’s just around the corner,” he points out, humming with pleasure at the little gasp she makes when he nibbles his way along her earlobe. He runs his hand solidly around her hip, relishing the idea of his Swan wearing feathers and simultaneously wanting nothing more than to get her out of them.

A mewl escapes her, and he feels her fingers delve into his hair. “Actually,” she breathes, trying to stay focused, “I had another stop in mind first, if that’s okay.”

Killian pauses and pulls back to fix her with a playfully chiding look. “Are you asking me to delay taking you to bed on our wedding night _again_ , love?” he rumbles, his heart rate already quite insistent. “Because I may not possess that kind of self-control.”

She giggles. “Just one stop. It’s for my other surprise.”

He hums in mock contemplation, his fingertips brushing aside a loose strand of her hair and drifting down her neck affectionately. “I make no promises,” he warns, flashing his dimples like a scoundrel.

“Mmm.” Emma bites her lip. “I guess I better make it quick then.” She seizes the collar of his coat and poofs them away.

The smoke clears to reveal a dark room, and it takes his eyes a moment to adjust to the dim moonlight that shines through the few windows of what looks to be a storage room, the ghostly shapes of cloth-covered furniture surrounding them on all sides. 

Killian cranes his neck around curiously, and Emma gently pulls away. “Um, darling? Where are we?”

“Just above our chambers,” she answers breezily. “At the top of the tower. I need to find something.”

“And what’s that?” He arches an eyebrow and glances around the room again as she moves closer to one of the windows, looking rather ethereal in her white gown beneath the pale light. 

She turns, and he can tell by the way she freezes that she’s found her quarry, her eyes widening and a smile curving her mouth. “This.” She pulls at the sheet covering an object that’s long and rectangular and surrounded by decorative finials that reach chest-high. 

Killian squints as he approaches for a closer look. “What is it?” He watches as she drops the sheet to the floor and runs her hand tentatively over the scalloped edge of... His eyes grow round, and his heart stutters. “Swan?” he croaks.

“It’s… it’s my old crib,” she mumbles, now looking shy and a little anxious. “I just…” She raises her eyes to him, her cheeks flushed and her lip between her teeth again. “We’ll be needing it early next year.”

His jaw slackens, and he’s never seen anything so wonderful in his life as the sight of her – his _wife_ – glowing at him beneath the full moon and standing next to the crib meant for… for their _child_. _Bloody hell._ His stunned gaze darts toward her belly before fixing back on her rosy face.

“Is… is that alright?” Worry creeps across her brow. 

It’s as though her words restore his ability to move, and he rushes her, scooping her into his arms and kissing her fiercely, his eyes starting to burn. “You’re…?”

He feels her relax and give in to heady laughter against his chest as she kisses him back and nods. “Mm-hmm.”

Killian pulls back and cups the side of her face with his hand, studying her with helpless adoration. “How long have you known?”

“Maybe a week,” she admits, eyes shining. “I wanted to tell you first.”

A _baby_. They’re going to have a _baby_. The most perfect woman in all the realms is going to bear him a son. Or a daughter. He realizes he doesn’t care which as he leans forward to capture her lips again. Emma sniffles against his skin and winds her arms up around his neck, her fingers curling along the base of his skull and her shoulders quivering slightly as she shudders with perfect contentment. She’s _his_. And this child is _his_. And he doesn’t bloody deserve either of them, but he’ll fight to his dying breath to keep them all the same. Because this is his _life_ now. Emma and the little one growing inside her – they’re his life. And more than he has since arriving at the castle, he feels _home_.

“I love you,” he whispers, tracing her cheekbone with his thumb and swiping through the wet trail of a happy tear.

“I love you, too.” 

He looks down at her stomach and lays his hand across it with the greatest reverence, and she laughs and lays her hand atop his. 

“So what do you think, Captain?" she teases. "Are you ready for another adventure?”

Killian’s chuckle reverberates in his chest as he gives her belly another caress and then pulls her flush against him. She rests her head on his shoulder, and he presses a kiss to her temple, his heart rising to his throat as it suddenly occurs to him that he’s holding his new family in his arms. “With you, my love?” he murmurs, hugging her tighter and smiling into her hair. “Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! For a behind-the-scenes look at this fic, check out a reader Q&A I did here (http://pocket-anon.tumblr.com/post/167534400057/10-questions-every-fic-writer-secretly-wants-to-be)!


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